Midnight's touch

is soft

Like a

sweet

It cradles

and

warms

Such that

a brisk

new breeze

From

a fire's

top

Sobs

Ripe in

serenity

But too,

thick

And

muddled

In disease.

And I,

Breath it in

Suckling

like a

child

In its

tender

warmth

Of

swirling

night

Silent

bells

Tolling

in dark

sound

against

mind.

But soon,

it becomes

too wide

Consuming

dry air

Suffocating

desperations

Injecting

drowsy delight.

And I know,

the bed

is not as

warm

nor as sweet

nor

tender

As the numbness

it feeds me

Through its

painted

spoon

Glittering

in fractured

stars.

Soon,

sunlight

passes through

Holy morning,

dawn.

No god

need

relieve

me

of sin,

Because now

midnight's touch

is buried

Deep

beneath

My skin.