Night Clamor


We all know it.

Whether first dreams
or last gasps before sunrise,
we know the night clamor

How subtle its beginnings,
preying on our relaxed drift,
that short time of remembering today,
imagining tomorrow.

How little control
we have over these shadowed experiences,
these realms of repression
kept impotent during the day,
free to roam our sleep

We awaken to disturbances,
unknown origins haunting our consciousness,
even as books,
scholars,
and shrinks tell us
such is not in our control.

We try to relax,
shake it off,
its purpose served,
revealing something
of closeted fears
not known yesterday,
yet so familiar today.

We spring into our start,
imagining coffee,
croissant,
smiles of the doorman,
even given to the cantankerous next door neighbor.

You're free.

For night clamor,
having done its job,
convinces you you're awake,
wiser for the sleepless night,
less naïve,
more attentive.

Even with eyes remaining closed,
realization awakens, whispering:
“You’re more than who you never were.”

But we’ve been told we must be...

Yet, we are here,
serving the moment
where true identity has no choice.

Eyelids flutter as we imagine
running into the yard,
ripping off our clothes,
visualizing effrontery all around
even though we are but in a cell
we created.

Accept…

One's life sentence
grants no reprieve,
only night clamor.

Strange redemption
this nocturnal reality,
where the actuality of trust
remains yet to be acquired.