Seán O Muiríosa
Cracks Of Night
Staring through the dark of night
I can just about make out the ceiling, cracks and all.
It’s a battered fading plain of white like a rolled up piece of paper
Flattened back out again. It must have witnessed
Some disturbing truths to be so utterly glum.
I wonder if my slumber will antagonise the aching lines further
Only to come limping back to me like wounded soldiers?
I think of all those who must have laid here before me –