poetry

What starts at three

Loneliness stabs me in the centre of my chest — makes a nice clean cut

There’s no blood like the last time

What is it about the depth of the night

— it makes you feel intensely

Haunting restlessness sets in

The leaves rustle wildly against the window

No rain tonight, just wind

The cars are parked neatly in boxes

And temple is pristine white

—television’s pitch black

Everything is still but me

Moving from one furniture to another

Pacing back and forth

That’s what horror is — the quiet

Like something will jump out any moment

But nothing does

The chest goes on a radio static

As if making contact with outer space

Is anyone there, I wonder

I move back to the bed, where he once lay

Drawn to the ceiling – it has painted white

hibiscus against cherry pink

Like flowers floating in sangria

It baffles me, how did I miss it night after night

We had it for a long time now

Yet I missed it like everything else

The truth, it was before me as a child

— as an adolescent, tonight

I wasn’t ready to see

I looked at it against the incandescent – it lights it through the left corner

I speak plainly tonight

Saving you time – spending lifetime deciphering my metaphors

I can’t let go of this feeling as you sleep without consequence

Where I am compelled to choose this slumber

We are still eight minutes to four

A man takes off on his bike at a distance

Solace in a stranger

We are alone but in a crowd

If I only thought positive – I’d sleep better

The radio static numbs down gets somber

As if the contact is established

That night — loneliness set in

The same way as now we blamed it on the ghosts that roamed the place

We didn’t look the ones that made me their abode

What is it about people, so difficult to convince, the unseen

They name everything, it makes it easier than the incomprehensible

If you see it, you are a maniac, if a lot of you see it, it’s collective hysteria

But if they see it then it exist

What is real – I question

Is it me or is all of this nibbling at my soul

If thoughts had power he’d be here

And that all made sense, we’d go bonkers

The time moves ahead

And we remain alone

What starts at three sometimes ends at four.

1 thought on “What starts at three”

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