Second Shift

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
I have not gazed upon the moonlight in my tired drear.

Submitted: January 09, 2017

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Submitted: January 09, 2017



2nd Shift


I have not gazed upon the moonlight in my tired drear.

Not to the stars, with what wonder they held, 

Not to the woods, whose silent air would envelop the trees in a darkly shroud.

My midnight ridings, and midnight writings have stolen me long from home. 


They have stole me to a violent city that lives and breathes while the others dream. 

Its river was oil, its fish were all dead. 

The mountains that rose to kiss the sky, were not rock, but ditritus instead. 

And there in that city, we made horses of all kinds. 


I was made quick; A slave to the hour, and a slave to the dollar.

And I would'nt have wept for these chains destroying freedom,

If the chain hadn't choked the gray,

between us, a divide of night and day. 


To everything that is holy, 

Are sweet things only her's.

The night; her silence, 

when we can't sleep will kiss us. 


She is the final beast and turn of earth, 

her darkness and night sky, 

the wings of a creature, 

I mournfully murdered. 


And when we pulled back her wings, 

My workers and I, 

I was the only one looking to what lay beyond-

A black sky. 


A moon without texture, 

A forest without horror. 

Stars that didn't twinkle. 

An extinction of the nighthowler. 


Her silence was broken, 

and wonder was stolen. 

When the night was conquered, 

The day was legnthened. 


The best parts of day,

And the sweetest parts of night, 

Were gone. 

All I had was a haze. 


When do you sleep,if you work in the haze?

Where do you dream, if you live in the dark?

What shall be feared,

If you don't walk in the day? 


Upon my red horse, I return to home. 

And to what's left of the dark, 

Far beyond the midnight hour,

Where the young night turns old and sour. 


My head rests, but my heart can't retire. 

For rises now the Sun. 

But awake I stay. 

Closing my eyes, breathing so soflty. 


On the surface I appear asleep, quiet. 

Trying to lure sweet sleep in, to be so still, 

Begging, crying, for an ounce of sleep, 

For I know I cannot make it. 


But sleep does not live in the day. 

And I am returned to the night once more, 

And then back to day more tired. 

But she will not forgive me with sleep. 


Hour after hour, 

Lying dead then more tired. 

And sleep her protecter shows no mercy, 

Until I am done. 









© Copyright 2018 Katelyn Balowski. All rights reserved.

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