At 2 p.m. I rise, and at 5 a.m. I sleep

by Renwick Berchild

Lit, a gaslamp as a sun,
this is the star we have, here,
those of us of the night,
and lately, we have the quiet,
but it is not always so,
for phantoms sometimes eek
from out of mourning souls,
and walk down the roads,
with sways, and heavy heels.

I am a human of the faux-alighted life.

Dim and dank, bulbs and fires,
the teardrops of candle flames,
dark plentiful, I do not grow
in the daytime, for then I rest,
and while all others step I gather
shut eye and dreams, it is
lonelier, than you can glean,
but I know silence like a stone,
and grant of thought, unimpeded.  


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