There's supposed to be peace in the silence,
A trait of calm that settles across the distance
And an era of hope in the covering of darkness.
But this open window teases me with the threat of freedom
As if, if I just immersed my head into its tangling embrace
For one second the hush of night would diminish
It's echoing call.
Somewhere the sounds of saturated darkness
Bear its shattered innocence to my ears
And a speeding car travels past my visions' checkpoint
Snatching any hope of a new horizon
In its headlights, and it will disappear
So I will be left with a looming blackness
That has suddenly filled all emotions with emptiness.
I bury my head into the covering of my bent knees
Knowing the smallest form of restlessness, that wakes
Slowly through the trees
Wants to touch my cheek and place its icy hand
Under my downtrodden chin
Forcing me to see.
The rain from my eyes is telling me to hide,
Though slowly I infiltrate its shield.
And under a cloudy sky, I finally see a rush of light,
A single plea for an escape from darkness.
Is it true that this is not where I want to be,
Blanketed in night that's dimmed by everything?
With persuasion of exhaustion, I lay down my head
Closing my eyes to kill away these images
Sleeping with no hope for tomorrow
And no more thought for today.
Author notes
I wrote this almost two years ago to the date. Found it when I was going through my old writing. Thought it'd be interesting to compare what I wrote when I was 19 to now.
I miss the passion though. Re-reading has shown me how much passion I used to have, and how much of that passion for writing has been forgotten.
Comments
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I see the difference of your past writings to your present; There seems to be a vibration of thought and imagery as compared to the subtlety of memory you now write with. Either way, whatever you were feeling is captured, whether in recollection or in raw reality.
I love the title. For some reason, it intrigued me throughtout reading the poem. I kept it in the back of my head, figuring it into each stanza. It's absolutely a perfect fit.
This makes me think of a restless night, the waking up at 3 or 4 in the morning and wanting to sink back into sleep. It more than likely feels that way to me because of my own relationship with nighttime and sleeping. In saying that, I guess that's part of why I love the title so much; "Night has its place" with everyone.
Passion is one of the most elusive things known. You still have it, but not to the extenet you once had. It happens to the best of writers. I've been starting to think it may just be part of the process: lose what you knew to find something you'll soon know. It'll come back.
"I bury my head into the covering of my bent knees
Knowing the smallest form of restlessness, that wakes
Slowly through the trees
Wants to touch my cheek and place its icy hand
Under my downtrodden chin
Forcing me to see."
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