Of This My Next Day
Well into the night the shadows slumber
the dark things cease to thunder.
Past the hour that the devil loves,
the clock's hand long past striking three
and still I lie awake, sleep far from my taking.
My mind racing upon the possibilities
of the day yet to come.
The acted verse of my fellow on the stage of the day
that had already come
reeling in my head,
projected as images on my
closed but sleepless eyes.
Their drama,
shared with mine,
seeming in my sleepless trans to hold the most
important of places in the world.
I await the things that tomorrow will bring,
in anxious anticipation.
The wonder that could be my life in
this new day.
And yet it seems that when it comes my dread
under guise of excited imagining is revealed,
my waiting breath held for nothing.
I will, like it has always been,
be disappointed by the lack of creativity
in fates cruel hand as it strikes upon the hours of the day.
Seeming to repeat the pattern,
the circle coming to a full end and around again
Only looks different
in its torturous monotony
of the petty squabbles, of petty people.
Jested words and unmeant gestures taken with offense.
The whispering of what they feel is important news,
its truth seeming less then what the scandal would belie.
Scandal is what they seek, to liven the dreariness of
everyday toils.
They pass it like some delicious drug
in all its addictiveness and I,
though wishing with sincerity that I did not,
partake alongside them.
For this day, yet despite my knowledge of the truth,
knowing that it will be the same formula,
the same hours regurgitated out by time, I go sleepless now.
I spend my energy worrying on unimportant acted things
the same thing, every night.
Always awake beneath the sleeping shadow,
warned of the late and early hour by the
ticking of the clock,
with fear tinged excitement for the coming
of the waking sun and the beginning of my
cloned play on the stage
of this, my next day.
