2 am

Crescent Moon

 

The early black

Is still unstirred

By yawning morning.

The ceiling fills

With predatory thoughts,

Like quiet children

Come to play

Their silent games,

Poking sticks into

Dark passages

Of forgotten memories;

Memories like frightened mice

That scurry off in panic.

The sadly moaning bell

Eighty years ago on a lonely buoy

Shrugging its shoulders

In a choppy sea.

A special purple

Strangely found on both

An apron and a stub of clay

In kindergarten.

The round eyed stare

Frozen to my mother’s face

As cancer pain

Prodded her to certain death.

A pet white rat curled in snooze

On my pillow by my cheek.

The falling crescent moon

Smiles in my window

Like my long gone mother

Soothing me

Back to the peace of sleep.

 

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