12 am 

3 am


I write this

in the half light of midnight

At the kitchen bench.
The air is cold, creeping

Through layers of yesterday’s clothes

Chilling me slowly,

and I’m hungry,


My mind is whirring,

shifting and sorting

Through memories

stirred up in sleep.
And I’m just here,




To the quiet call

Of an inner voice,


And it’s whisper grows

With a fierce, still, urgency,

And it’s talking of forgotten, forbidden, age-old


Ready to set me free.

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