Twilight Reclusive

When the night doth come, weary follows distantly. 

Toiling farther from the dawn with each passing sunset, offers not the distraction so sought out by its woeful captor.

With worried mind and worried soul and yearning for slumber. Not for rest, but for release. 

Relentless is the repeat of ruminating reasoning. Soul wrenching speculation scews sensibility, until slowly and sluggishly sleep ensues.

Once and once; then once more again, the almost. The lingering threat of liberating slumber ebbs on the edge of consciousness, slipping barely close enough to grasp. When thoughts and fears can be clung to with such affliction, barely is there still room to swaddle in burdensome arms notions of rest.

But night cometh to all in the end and before dawn's chorus brings advent  of yet another day's worries, eyes will clamp shut, bodies shall lay limp and breaths will slow to a steady, rhythmic, hypnotic cadence.


Restless stirring is naught but a temporary peace, a sweet, but fleeting vacation from the turmoil of the worrisome prose,  that narrates a questionable existence.


The sun's rays bully their way past eyelid sentries, unable to defend their ward when afronted on all sides by the piercing wall of sound from a seemingly uninvited and unexpected guest; the first alarm of the morning.

An unconscious dog fight follows, as though every last moment of snooze could make all the difference. As though one more minute, that mere moment, that sweetest last few breaths of ignorance could change the course of an entire life.

Awoken,  consciousness never comes back in one go, for fear of breaking a troubled mind with the sheer shock of it all. As though walking on egg shells pressure and weight must be applied slowly and consistently until the full burden can be supported  without cracking.

Realization that the day may have changed, but situations have not seep in, seemingly fast enough to drown. Swimming frantically to the surface, as though breath is all it will take to find all the solutions, but breath offers nothing more than the reaffirmation that to keep breathing is to perpetuate the struggle.


Oh how the day is long, but night cometh  to all and the nights seem ever increasingly longer now. 


◄ Bad Joke

Upon Reflection ►


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