L C Vieira
Three Thirty Nine A.M.
Three thirty-nine a.m.
A growing madness drowns the quiet,
heat humming through the vents,
the cold night mocking its attempt,
and I awake, still awake,
pound my pen to you.
Where does my practiced peace go in the night,
and all that contentment you talk about?
Are you lying there in restful bliss,
while I, a jumble of tumbled frenzy
toss about in wonder?
Of course, you're calm, unknowing -
eyes closed, dreaming;
a daring smile, I can envision
as I struggle here for a word, a touch,
a complete abandonment to you.
I pace nowhere in this bed and drink no fill,
and you are still
smiling sleep, the Happy Bear in his cave,
and I the Wandering Wolf, hungry and denied.
Sleep then, while I in torment hunt you down
until I find you in your dreams -
to seize whatever portion's left
for one as starving as your Wolf!
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