Night-Clamor

We all know it.
Whether first dreams
Or last gasps before sunrise,
We know the night-noise.

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 at bay during the day,
Free to roam nights in our sleep.

We often awake to disturbances,
Unknown origins haunting our consciousness.

Books.

Scholars.

Shrinks.

All tell us such is not in our control.

Relax.
Shake it off, is the advice.
Its purpose served
Revealing something
Of one's closeted fears,
Not known yesterday,
Yet companions for today.

Spring into your start.

Imagined Coffee,
Croissant,
Smiles to the doorman,
(Or to the dumpster-diver outside your door).
A pleasant nod to the cantankerous next door neighbor.

Makes no difference.
You're free to await
Another night’s hazy clamor,
Always fulfilling its job.

Reality convinces you you're awake.
Maybe even wiser for the sleep’s disturbance.

Each day…

You’re less naïve,
More attentive,
Less who you never were,
But were told you must be.

Yet you are here.
Serving the moment.
Serving your identity.

Run into the yard.
Imagine ripping off your clothes.
Dream of effrontery all around,
Even though you are but in a personal cell
You created.

One's life sentence
Grants no reprieve,
Only night-clamor,
That strange redemption,
Hope,
Reality,
Yet to be accepted and dreamed about the coming night.