This Is How The Hour Rises

This is how the hour rises

Throughout these rash times,

The epiglottis twixt being awake

And asleep, the switch.

With it’s awkward mysteries.

These unfortunate intrigues

Whose dysfunctional ways,

Illuminate with fright my precarious passage.

 

This is how the hour rises

During this evaporated night,

These my savoured minutes

Are chased to exhaustion and I pause.

The milky wasteland of my REM, my dreaming;

Helps me, as I devour its light,

On the toes of my fleeing,

I bumble in such brightness.

 

This is how the hour rises

At the making and the hay.

In the spring or in the rooms of the re-birthing parlour.

Layered, the refreshed can re-order their lives,

Whilst I kindle my blemish

And fan the heat.

I enamel my terror

And escape with my wheat.

 

This is how the hour rises

With the brining of the tide,

The solemn wash and drift,

The longshore longing.

Among the minds of coastal years,

With the gripping of the cogs,

It is the movement of tears.

 

This is how the hour rises

In the companionship of night.

Like a waves crashing or a blanket,

All consuming, all covering.

The breach is beneath the dream world

Covert and prized open

To the volume of life,

This is more than simple moonlight.

 

It is how the hour rise

In an assortment of hopes.

The eight hour tangent

Of a fools malaise.

Incongruous with waking

It is the old order of the day

The smelting of the memory

And the pointing of the way.

 

It is how the hour rises

Eight fold as we are lain

For some while to dream of our own deceit.

And of forethought

Am there after

Chained to the cycle

Of Nightmarish sleep.

 

© 2018 Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved