NaPoWriMo Sunday, 14 April 2013



 Acid-yellow street-light

shreds vestiges of sleep;

ungentle, indiscreet,

nothing uncertain in its glare

that keeps no secrets.

Tumbled thoughts attempt

a semblance of order,


like bats with faulty sonar,

banging against the skull.

This is the cruel hour.

Likelihood becomes inevitable,

possibilities become probabilities,

potential succumbs to the ineluctable.

This is the cruel hour,

the long waiting

for the rising that cannot be suppressed,

the kindly light.

© Marion Adams 2013

photo credit: <a href=””>Storm Crypt</a> via <a href=””>photopin</a&gt; <a href=””>cc</a&gt;


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