It's half past dawn,
and sleep is torn reluctant
from my arms
as birds flee shrieking
from the feral cats
pretending to be grass;
eyes ache, unwilling
to be open, craving dark
to soothe the mind
relinquishing the sweet
cocoon of dreams
that turns to smoke
as light comes in
the portals of the soul
to drag me out of heaven
into day, six hours early.
I need to sleep;
on Fridays I live
always in tomorrow
and waking now
will break me
on the wheel of 3 a.m.
low ebb of life force
when I need to sizzle
on the airwaves
the voice that whispers
promises of dawn
of new beginnings
in that hour when
souls will pack their suitcase
and sadness brings its
sorry court to order
as broken hearts seem
shattered ever after
until they hear the song
that weaves the threads
creating patches
strong in hope and healing
that makes the coming day
a flower, not a tomb.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is very good, and could relate to this soo well, as my husband works that particular shift at times, and it is so to the point..... Bonnie Collins