Saturday, June 27, 2009

4.17 am

4.17 am

When I am able
I will high tail into the hills
take my footsteps with me.
My heart composes its own songs
my throat opens
my voice sings
as if tomorrow
may not be another day.
To rely on the moon for guidance was a mistake
as it has gone into it’s own dark house.
If I am the instrument of God
why can’t I feel his hand upon me?
Is it 4.17
or the rain and wind
or the middle of things
that uproots me?
Airborne is the truth of it
the tempest has teeth.
Don’t follow me
I am mapless.

They say light will make a comeback.
But I see no signs
at this unholy hour
when monks and nuns wake in silence
and begin to pray

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