Sleepless?

Half past midnight

No sounds or damsels.

This is the sandleless hour.

No sound of sirens

Or urgency tonight,

No blue, no red light.

There will have been

Significant amounts of alcohol,

No doubt.

Someone will have drowned,

Someone else, will have been saved.

There is lightening in this Night,

The kind which flashes

Of inspiration,

As the last intake of breath,

Becomes the exhaled,

That is when the soul prepares to depart.

It is like a weighty slab to the eyes,

Ingenious in how it shuts out life.

And even concrete men

Are shaken and their core quakes.

This is the mighty night

X men are victims too,

With sweat droplets frozen to their vests.

This is another rotten curtain

Of a time.

The cloth has been torn for a second time.

The neoclassical prayers are now in play.

The weak flesh, understandingly,

Falls from the bone.

Everyone has turned very spiritual.

Those of a professional disposition

Reach instinctively for their gold

And rush head long for the sewers.

It had been a while coming,

But the waiting was now done.

There were wages to be paid,

Reward as promised.

And left over wafers for the blind followers

We’re dipped in milk

And given in remembrance

Of The homely times.

This is sink town at its finest,

The ćap is worn as it befits,

These few, who have brave hearted

A life of ruined dreams.

Twenty to one, it’s not yet morning

I too have dreamt the lie,

And the realisation and the magnitude

Is only just dawning.

C 2019 Christopher Thompson

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