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,

But

My mind is whirring,

shifting and sorting

Through memories

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

sitting,

waiting,

listening

To the quiet call

Of an inner voice,

Forming,

And it’s whisper grows

With a fierce, still, urgency,

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

truths

Ready to set me free.

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