The morning pulses its persistence
regardless of the night time still
it procrastinates its passing of the keys
and daylight taps its tick-tock fingers
The coffee pot sputters and sighs
steam; exasperated by its constant use
however much it’s loved it still complains
for all its necessity. It kisses my cup
goodnight the red light, blinks off.
A thousand crickets chirp their echos
in shadows misted over by bad habits
there is no silence in the countryside
as is imagined; only crickets replace sirens
whirring their wings of emergence.
I wait for dawn while capturing titles
I steal away their capital letters and rearrange them
horizontally in lower case on digital notepads
at some point they’ll all escape me and I’ll wait
till one might come back to say hello
this gives me a sense of visibility.
I’ll fall asleep with burnt coffee bean dreams
and vanilla breath; five hours of faux darkness
by then the night time has finally given in
and day breaks, like a crashing wave over the horizon
the force only stopped by heavy black curtains
I dream in Acts, I II and III. I wake up at The End.