When thoughts turn random.

The clock calls to my reasoning brain.
This hour is not for tired women, it says.
Go to bed.
This is not for those who collect
countless nights outside of the robes of matrimonial sleep.
Try. Go to bed.

I yearn for rest
not like the early days of spent passion sleep,
just the regular, go-to-sleep beside you kind.

I mourn the comfort of it,
where I murmur in the regularity of your breathing.
Where I travel a daily road trip, on dark country lanes,
The wheels turning on tarmac
Your breathing on the mix tape.

This hour is where women talk to familiars,
fool with notions, plot a murder, or two.
It is the time that the badgering winds of escape rush to embrace the soft flesh that invites sensation.
This hour calls to a simmering thought held long under oppression, or denial -
It makes absurd logical.
It irons curiosity into plans and makes the moon bear witness.

And, pray the moon warns them,
With a voice that derails the axes of the alchemy that spins at this hour
Release these volatile creatures who welcome the press of the noose on their accepting throats,
Back to, what?

No, pray otherwise.
Pray for a cloud that engulfs the moon ,
For women to yield to a new freedom and escape during unlit cover
And run before the clock ticks on.
On feet that rejoice free earth

Poetry by 1LFD
Read 46 times
Written on 2021-09-02 at 23:36

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