In the dread of night

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Spending time

In the deepest reaches of night,

Embroiled by this thick absence of light,

My beating heart

Is torn apart from the inanimate


We spend so much time

Acquiring, fetishizing.

Meanwhile, my soul meanders

Into a foreign time and space,

Delighting in breaking through

the barriers of self,

Rising and falling like the moon

Like the tide, like women's bodies,

Cycles of being

Elevated into childhood consciousness

Glean all the rich tapestry of fairy tale 

The child is father to the man

No nightmare imbroglio this

but a gradual drift, a shift

into consciousness.




◄ Stippled sky



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John Marks

Thu 11th Apr 2019 20:37

Thank you Steve. I have rheumatoid arthritis, and often write at night. John

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