Sleep deprivation and poetry

Morning is a special time for me. It's my chance to reflect and warm up to the day. I've always been an early riser, a morning person if you will, so there is a certain quiet in the wee hours while everyone else is still asleep that brings me a kind of peace and solitude and oneness with the world. If I'm awake, I like taking (after)midnight walks for this reason. Often during such walks inspiration strikes and I am compelled to write. Last night I was so inspired.

Longing after hours

The silence of the morning
as a retreat is a probation
upon the noise of the day
once the waning night is satiated.
Raindrops follow gently,
whispering their ardent androgyny
to those who would bear to hear it.
He who falls is not lost but instead
in coils encased buds bloom with orphic allusions.

Such scruff and tumble warmth
warrants the spiced scent of desire awakened.
Bread crumb trails to Hansel lead
before the burgeoning avians of respect,
dignity leave the path a purity still.
Untouched, unpossessed are these sunrise meadows.
The sky is a reflection
of the light below
in these post-coital hours.

Nothing stirs
but the unrequited
and the committed in conclusive embrace.
The quiet holds sway here.
Its power goes unbroken
before the bolden light of dawn.
It demands: Nothing external exists.
Nothing external survives
in sound
before it is smothered,
dampened by the lonely seconds interred
after midnight has taken its respite.

This is the time of the worm
before even the early bird breaks into song.
The wind.
The rain.
The trees.
The travelers passing through.
Moments last minutes last lifetimes
as memories suffuse that embracing shadow
with the warmth of a freshly emptied bed
after grey-eyed Eos follows through with her threats.

Day is approaching,
alarms are ready to prod
and jolt
and persist
in a frenzied push towards consciousness.
Coffee awaits the brewer’s cup,
a seduction of chemical alkaloids
all too willing, all too easy.
But the horizon is as yet unbroken,
unbloodied by the first pricks of Helios’ bright glare.
And it is quiet in the morning, silence to end the night.