Awakening to the sound of raindrops
falling from the eaves, to the waning
sunlight of the evening that fails
to enter the bedroom, so coy or just
tired after so many bedroom encounters,
what is there to do but to get up, make
a pot of coffee to drink away the dust
of sleep, and sit down before the machine
in a shadowy corner of the living room
and make a miniature of this moment,
when the wasted light of the day dying
to my eyes, rolling across distant skies
wantonly greets opening eyes that
will make most of their bright hours,
while I with my words encounter the night
that lets them to leave its Chtonic grip
and allows me to slip inside its abyss
and there to do my Sisyphean task.
18.03.2025
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