As dark draws and the curtains also,
The second 12 hour lapse means I'm a double uglier
Bits of me get carried away with the sun,
My head, my heart, my chest, the other side of my face,
I feel patchy and the bits that have stayed to reside, to shelter,
Surely get poisoned by a plague that weights in my head all day,
Does it hide inside my 4 walls?
Until the day-time me is scattered into stardust, a mess of a river,
with a golden-nugget littered bed,
It cannot be used until 3 am.
To tired to beat myself up, to tired to clean up blood.
I have no one to thank but my own procrastination and laziness,
And my imagination; your arms felt so nice.
I'm welcome, anytime.
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Comments about this poem (At Night by Louie Caulson )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Christmas Trees, Robert Frost
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
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