sunbaked, faded, dried to the point of cracking
i flee from your arms to the waiting coolness of night
surrounded by these towering witnesses i shed my skin of lies
and dive into the pools of waving grass
free am i to be who i am
a creature of darkness
a shadow in the night
until the fingers of morning beckon me forward
and the poplars sing their remembrance of life
forever will i live mourning the bright
and remembering this twilight
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.
Great read.
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Kind of sad. Home is not really home. Home is trap, while away from home at night is freedom. At least the speaker has sometime he can be himself.
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