POEM: The Dawning Hour.

The darkest hour preceding dawn,
when the stars shine dimmest—
When silences are frozen
and dew, like pre-cum,
nears its keenest scent
dreams, mist and climax peak their harrowing.
when lovers clutch tighter,
when grave robbers, buglers  and clear heel stilettos retire.

The dawn, the breaking of its fragile shell of light;
grey, then aurora, leafing through sleeping trees
then the splash of lights other-worldly, jangling and
shinning the world back to a repeated clamour;
A new day to make me feel older, in passing
and as dreary as a fat person’s chin up—
more effort that endeavor.

Then the alarm goes and I feel older already;
my life thrown in the loop of finite eternity—
A stone rippling through the shore;
The shore turned to stone by prevailing gales of rut.

The morning paper reminds me this planet isn’t made
for dreamers—social liabilities is what we are.
another scandal, another death,
another hell another jest, living the wrongness of it—
All nightmares tentatively individualized.
I wait for night to return
that hour before dawn where
my endless sighs crescendo

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