Quarter Past a New Day

As my personal witching hour approaches

My early 4:48 psychosis

My breath comes thick

Not with memory exactly

But more a reflexive dread

And excitement

A compulsion perhaps

Sometimes I sing

My song to the faraway sailor

To keep him safe from the black hags

that do be flyin’ on the sea

Most of the time I am silent

Defiant

Or simply tired

Or blissfully unaware

There are weeks

There are months

Where I do not blink at this time

Where I’m far too occupied

But lately I’ve been embracing regression

And warming to that lullaby

Again

I fear I’ll break the spell

If I set it on the page

Thus am I held in thrall -

Thus, and that I wouldn’t let them

Cut that candle