At the Dark Ends of the Day

At the dark ends of the day I burn dim lamps

to bathe my face in the refractions of an empty page.

This eucharistic light, these cigarettes, quieten me,

though candles never yet raised a corpse.

But if I should sleep the pasts close in,

heavier than blankets, more stifling than Summer,

from which world I return haggard

as from the Harrowing of Hell.

So each cigarette is my prayer (should God exist)

to let me rest or let me write, while the

shape in the bed mumbles, “Come and sleep”,

and my body trembles at the summons of my Queen.

But the King must answer the endless question,

“Sit I thus upon my throne and cannot rule my page?”

Unanswered, I find myself praying,

“Lord of all I don’t perceive,

receive me now.”

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  • Squeaky  On January 2, 2012 at 12:44 am

    this made me smile in recognition. especially the cigarettes. oh, how well i know that one…

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