the small hours

In the small hours

I wake to see

the floodtide

swelling up to swallow me

for the crime

of napping a few hours

before my time.

 

My thoughts reach

deep,

deep,

into the morning

and seep seep seep

soak me through

flooding

my skull with ashy clouds

storming

violence upon the pages

of a spiral pad

i keep

just for these occasions

 

But

when the night is done

and the sea recedes

I find some poems

and flickering sleep

finally won.

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