jeudi, octobre 09, 2003 This quiet hour of 4 -we are lovers, you and I (though I probably share you with countless others; nonetheless you never kiss and tell) You are a quiet one. Looking over me as friends stop blinking, one by one their flowers closing their petals and shutting their eyes And you were there. By me. Quiet in my solitude Quiet in our silence Quiet in that hush those soft, restrained hours before dawn - I love wrapping myself in your embrace the darkness pliable around my shoulders. It was a cloak which wore me well which I wore well to contemplate code, rehearse rhymes and generally live life, sitting cross-legged on my chair. Or just sit, thinking nothing at all, revelling in the ability to sit, thinking nothing at all. The inevitable race we run has called, and I must return from this pit-stop; I am long overdue. So take this cloak black, shake out the smell of those soft, restrained hours before dawn smooth away the creases from the code and fold it up neatly. Put it by the chair I used to dream on thinking all and nothing at all. I thank the owner muchly for its use. (Now hark and listen. The clock strikes the hours one-two-three-) 2:26am 9 October 2003 [Disquiet] |
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