I want to see the dawn approach

and the dead

of the night, in all its mundane glory

and sheltered sideways repose,

disappear into the distance

from the point where twilight begins

in earnest and the ghosts of memory

are caught in perpetual agony,

screaming for forgiveness

and let loose once penance is served.

 

I want to stand, shoulders back,

not hunched over like a carved and varnished stick,

worn by clutched hand and frightened

sentiment, I want to greet the dawn

with purpose and smile,