Awake

Awake for an hour and a bit, I’ve already told a lie or two,
already made one excuse for not living, another for not

dying, one more for not knowing how to shape prosaic
being into poetic absence. Already, I have recalibrated time

spent waiting for things to be made right, abstracted feeling
so nothing seems too wrong, it is okay now to be unfinished,

a little chipped, seams showing, not to have done everything,
not to have said, have heard everything, already one more

reckoning has faded into the viscous dark. What is worse
than an apology that comes too late, that never comes?

What is colder than sadness? What if that sharp bulbul cry is
not song, just wretched swearing at the sky? Awake so far

ahead of dawn, I have already bargained for a thing you
would call happiness with a thing you wouldn’t call god.

10 thoughts on “Awake

  1. “What if that sharp bulbul cry is
    not song, just wretched swearing at the sky?”
    Oh, my! Guilt lives inside me for all my transgressions, tho not as eloquently or passionate as this. I try to acknowledge it is a daily thing, mundane. But here is another war beginning in the Ukraine, and the truth is, I’d rather watch a movie than face it. Truth is, I’d rather hear the cries as song. Didn’t I see this all coming for years and years? How long have I worked on carving a gentle blind path between life and death?

    Like

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