Passing The Time

The clock says 2 a.m.
and the horizon is bereft
of its gleaming radiance,
its pearly lassitude.
The moon, in particular,
is conspicuously absent -
distant, this night
from the other meaningful
reflections in the nocturnal 
mind’s eye.

At this hour the wind ruffles,
rather than lifts
seagulls of thought into the sky.
They rest beyond the cliffs, surrounded
by the waves that have lost 
their insight 
into whether they are new,
or simply echoes 
of older emotions,
long misunderstood and gone.

Inland, the city 
offers no better,
no answers beyond 
its solar-lit bluster -
a spectral palace. 
Here, the neon looks back
and communicates a message 
beyond its buzzing, 
red dimensions.

There is no vacancy.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.