3 a.m. black

Stifled by emotion
waiting for a word

If only they came
easily, as song to
a bird

I long for the morning
that will end this
terrible night


It’s the time of the shadowcaster
when the streets are turning blue
and the sky becomes distant
He is frightening because
he can turn friends and lovers
into dark silhouettes
and make beauty transparent
but one should never forget
that he is the only one
who can turn
violence into whispers
and ugliness into mystery


It’s never about what I think it’s about

Say one thing
mean another
think a third

How do we
when nothing
makes sense?

Unconscious animal
moving through
the day

Trying to find
meaning in
a word
a look
a gesture

Knowing there
is nothing I can do
to stop these random
inaccurate thoughts

From creeping
making themselves

But I keep thinking,
all this will make
perfect sense …


(D. James)