One O'clock In The Morning

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Poetry


I wrote this at the kitchen table, staring into a dark room, at (you guessed it) one o'clock in the morning.

Submitted: September 25, 2017

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Submitted: September 25, 2017

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Here it’s one o’clock in the morning,

I write to you with pen imploring,

The room too large for this strange night,

Dark corners far from table light,

Disclose foul imps ashoring.

It’s one o’clock in the morning.

 

I cannot see with my glasses on,

I cannot see when they fall;

I only see what I think I see,

Looking forth between words to the wall.

 

A dog-faced boy stands near the stairs,

Who sees me and seems to prick up his ears,

A boy, a boy, a dog-faced boy,

He sees me and disappears.

 

And something moves on the bottom step,

Which then moves on to the next;

I reach for my cup, the cup is dry;

With the fact I am further vexed.

 

The door lock shakes

With passing by

Of singing ghosts,

Of searching eyes.

 

The breath grows tight

Of a maiden fair,

Head underwater,

She waits for air.

 

Stomping feet

On the floor above,

Somebody’s marching

I’m thinking of.

 

A basement demon

Tarnishes gloss,

Its finger smears,

“Let go the cross!”

 

And yet I sit

With pen imploring;

I sit with pen,

The pen exploring.

 

A blackbird’s song

Through window shade,

Tells starlit stories

With notes dismayed.

 

The ghosts return,

The maiden screams,

The dog-boy’s ailment

The dark redeems.

 

Goodnight.

 

Here it’s one o’clock in the morning.

I fear still let my eyes go touring,

The room too large for this strange night,

With what they return for me to fight,

Like red-eyed goats come boring.

It’s one o’clock in the morning.


© Copyright 2018 Tag Cavello. All rights reserved.

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