Midnight weighs on her wet brow. a massive dread for what morning will bring. His wheezing voice still echoes as she hurries through deserted alleys for a cold mattress and lumpy pillow.
Bustling clouds veil the dying moon above in the street of the sky. Night walks scattering poems of tragedy and los, his massive footfalls approaching.
Night wears a cape, his pale face glistening, in mockery of absent moons.
She knows she cannot outrun him, and slowing down she let him do what he always wants, giving in again.
Night is a drug of deep dependence, night is silent and cold but Day is harsh and relentless so she let herself be touched, seduced to believe that morning never will come.
She wakes in her soft bed, warm from his flesh, hearing a wheezing voice from the kitchen calling:
“Darling, breakfast is ready”.
Night-time, Enigma, and Nostalgia Arshile Gorky
Today Linda hosts Prosery at dVerse, where we write prose incorporating part of a poem. Today’s prompt which comes from Tulips & Chimneys, by E. E. Cummings and is the last line of IX- Impressions: ‘In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems.’
November 7, 2022.