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Rated: E · Lyrics · Writing · #2100781
During the night I write
Writing a poem, suffering from a headache. It’s been
a wish for years. To live on the edge
of the abyss. Concurring that fear is
magical and makes you suspect miracles exist.

Sitting in the dark wondering what the purpose is. Does
the future reveal itself in the present and
wherefore? Why the lingering for centuries
that will not change? Here and now
it’s bound to happen and it will, without
effort it seems when you forget the amount of time,
so much time that should have been wasted on living.

What do these church bells mean in the distance? It’s the middle
of the night! The neighbors are asleep and you wished
you could trade places with them just for a short while.
A few minutes, to taste, to hear, to smell what it’s like,
to feel what’s missing. But NO, that lie
is too easy and above all untrue. The choking
goes too fast. Teeth clenched, the desire for
a poem is bigger than you thought.

And then, when it prevails (might it continue longer
then a few minutes), the joy: this fragment
that congeals in this night, how unique is it? How real
this meet with an old friendship, a love
not ceasing despite the years of searching for
the provenance, the origin of everything that was?
It’s there to stay, to mature, to be
what it’s supposed to be: the filled hand of the searcher. I
am aware of my aim for the animation
of words. Don’t let it stop, please let's
continue what’s been started. It’s time to wake.

And when it struck 00.30 a.m., the silence deafening,
sincere and naive like the child you once were; the worries,
that were always there, disappeared. When it’s past half of
this night, this endless jump ahead, where
will it lead you? The minutes tick-tocking silently, it
surprises and I wonder about my ignorance.
You want to shout out but you won’t, out of respect
for the long wait. The child learned how to walk, learned
cycling. What else is there? Is there more? The grown up
and the old one, both back in the margin
of a story that just slightly evaporates.

This is what is there, this tastes like more,
this wants to continue.

This longing for words: my voice
opens up, stands up, starts a snake dance
with air.

Lines:46
Prose Poem
© Copyright 2016 WakeUpAndLive‍‍~December (wiesblaize at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2100781