Morning

There's no going back now

the years have swallowed themselves
like pills and are holding their breath

the night has studded itself
with enough stars to become

invisible

its absence suffocates me
like an infant in a pillowed crib

morning is a bed full of crumbs
and tin foil sheets that will not let me rest
tosses and turns needle my sleep

there are no more hours

when daylight lights its white lantern
and expectation pours
itself over the hill of my chest

nothing is delivered

though the pigeons are keen
with messages and display themselves
on rooftops like tiny feathered postmen

but they only coo a grey distraction
on a day already grey with rain

they offer no option no relief
the night is spent
and no exchanging policy can refund it

Maria Theresa Ib

If you've any comments on this poem, Maria Theresa Ib would be pleased to hear from you.