A Letter to Myself

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It’s one of those nights.

 

One where the stars are too still in their orbits,

And I can imagine the scent of your perfume

Lazily wafting its way around the room,

And a love song – French, because those are the kind you liked best –

Is lingering in the air,

A mere whisper

Competing with the sounds of the rain

Tapping its melody upon the windowpane,

And the train hurtling through space and time,

Carrying me far from where I was,

Yet bringing me no closer to where I meant to be,

And the fruits of my youth lay wasted at my feet,

And a kind of melancholy that only visits me when I think of you

 Like a cloak I put upon shoulders so that I can wear your sorrows,

If only so you can dream a dream of peace, tonight,

Has taken hold,

And I burn and yearn to make right my wrongs,

To make my peace with my Gods,

And I sit here, staring into your soul,

So revealed in the brights of the eyes I see reflected back at me,

And I pray for both of our salvations,

And I blink and you are gone;

One of those nights

When I wish I could take wing

And travel back through time to be where you are.

 

 

It’s one of those nights.

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Dawn Breaking

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Day is breaking,

And so am I.

 

The crickets sing, still,

But soon their song will be still and silent;

Already, it has reached a crescendo,

And begun to fade.

 

Dawn is blossoming from the East,

Spreading outwards like a lover’s touch

Prying open the secret, furtive parts of this world,

Revealing the weary people of the night,

Who have succeeded in their quest to brave the dark,

At least ’til morn’.

 

The birds have awoken,

And are flying hither and thither;

Soon, their silent wings will take them far from here,

To sing a different song

For some other poet to mournfully record.

 

They seem starlike,

Silhouetted against the pink streaks of dawn,

Save they are lightless,

And distinctly less distant.

 

Now, a seagull cries his way shoreward,

And the colors of sunrise, muted, now,

Are phantom-like and fading,

Fading, fading;

And soon, they will be forgotten

In their entirety.

 

Dawn has broken;

And so have I.

 

Creatures of the Night

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They are out

In the pouring rain,

In the bitterest dregs of the night,

In those early, pre-dawn morning hours

Where so few creatures dare to stir,

Some of them human,

Most of them spending those long and lonely hours

Praying for the glimmering hope of first light,

All united in their singular quest

To get from Point A to Point B,

From dusk to daybreak,

Except they- those brave souls of the dark,

Those valiant stewards of night –

They are on the slow path.