Timelessly, I Go….
Who speaks to us at night but strangers
Published in
1 min readJun 23, 2024
I can feel the moon climb its bloodied arc
& peer relentlessly through the window
as if I was the only one on Planet Earth
& had to bear all the unspoken burdens of the age.
How more intimate can a woman be
— to consume the bedroom
with her light & leave me
pale & exhausted by morning?
Ruthlessly, she disappears without glance
or bedside note
instead a head filled with others’ ideas.
This cruelty of coming & going
is not my own, yet gifts me with a seeker’s role
a spur to find what is never lost.
She leads like priest or mystic
to what is never known yet somehow, always here.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
