Wee hours of the morning--
except, it's not.
and the house creaks
as if stretching cramped timbers.
thumps and grinds--
as if using its last legs
to run laps around the dining room.
The dog snores at my feet
and my computer chair
creaks every time I shift
Night music to write to
as I burn midnight and 2:09 am oils
to finish my book.
It's all there in my head: the voices
muttering away, nagging
at me for their time to speak.
Stories come together, overlap,
inter-twine. The tension builds--
can't rush it, got to let it all
Masks wear thin while yet others
are donned in anticipation:
they all wear masks, you see.
To hide behind or hide from--
even the ones who don't even know
they are masked.
But the Masquerade draws nigh
and all masks will come off.
Need to get back to it,
but I'm running out of yawns
and dawn is but three hours away.