5 in the Morning

The end of a night where sleep

failed me;

My body became static

floating

With the absence of slumber

that never came.

The morning felt premature,

The sun already penetrating the flimsy beige of the curtains.

I slipped through the barriers

of fabric and glass

My bare feet finding

Moss and rough tile

Slanted but not dangerously so

Towards the grass below.

Around me other rooftops

Perched upon other houses

Stood to attention

Facing the gentle yellow dictator emerging to our left

And nothing felt more true

Than this day preparing to be allowed to happen

Already spewing out precious minutes, seconds

Never to be reclaimed.

Buses would roar, toast would burn, metallic keys turn well used locks and ancient words and ideas and people would be recycled, renamed, given the unworthy title:

Future.

But having seen the morning

Having felt the shrinking weight

Of it’s possibility

I would sleep.

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