Poetry: The Dreaming Hours

the cracks on my ceiling
get longer in the dark.
they crawl like vines,
destructive fingers in
brick and mortar,
leaves made of shadow
photosynthesizing the shafts
of moonlight that break
through my blinds.
what are the things that
only grow in the dark,
evaporating into mist
in the orange sun?
what do I see in the
early hours, when the
blackness teases my
insomniac pupils?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *