We have now entered the birds-chirping-all-night season.
Prayer to the middle-of-the-night gods:
please let me sleep
thank you for the beautiful moon
and winter silence
but please let me fall back to sleep—
three o’clock —
in the depths of worry
swept away in the
whirlwind of nothing —
a horrible nothing
—blackout poetry created from Octave Mirbeau, The Diary of a Chambermaid, 1891–1900, page 6
Middle age — a stealthy, crafty nemesis.
3 a.m. ink is pure and unfiltered,
specks of truth glimmer in candlelight
The veil concealing truth gets windswept in the wee hours, revealing all to the silence of the night.
Night speaks a language of shadows and of the soul. 3 a.m. is poetry translatable only by the moon and stars.
A clock is ticking
in my living room
I never even noticed
that it makes noise;
my mind is ticking,
my heart is ticking;
is audible at 3 a.m.