Secrets of the Night

A clock ticks in my head;
3 am, it says.
I smile, thinking:
Of course, it’s my time.
My time, indeed,
For I toss my bedding aside,
And drag my feet and the rest
Of my body out of bed.
Cold floor, I think,
Rubbing my eyes,
Drunken with sleep.
And, of course, I am up now
And the clock,
Indeed, is there, somewhere,
Within my recesses,
Ticking, and ticking.
And every “such time”
In the AMs, it reminds me
Of something I quite cannot.
Yet I feel it,
As I stare blankly
Into the darkness—
I feel it rise within me
And fall: a mighty slam.
I sip something;
It seeps into my soul—
My withins warm up,
From the coldness, not only
Of the flesh, but also of the mind
And not of the heart
(My heart remains stone cold).
A sip for a thought,
Unpacking and packing anxieties,
Stress, anger, and frustrations;
A sip for the feels,
Breaking, and breaking,
To unchangeables
And uncontrollables.

It is a long stretch through dawn
And every night, at a point in sleep,
A clock ticks in my head;
3 am, it says.
I rise, and listen to my heart:
Oh, the AMs,
How I have found my place
With the stars, and the moon
And acquainted myself
To darkness, and its whispers
And discovered
The secrets of the cold.
I have fought silent battles;
Others got out of hand, losses
And gains, piling up gratitude.
I understand more
Of how little control
Over outcomes, means lesser worry
Over outcomes, and thus lesser stress,
And thoughts, as cold as the night.
I even go to bed with broad smiles,
At times.
And yet, at a point in sleep,
A clock, as tradition, ticks
In my head;
3 am, it says. Oh, the AMs!


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