Eye Lid

The midnight leaves us

to ourselves.

The weight of the day

less than blankets.

Half memories left undone,

the worries, so pressing,

now on the floor

like unwrung socks.

All music is breath

set to time, time

silent, time

sound. The clock

conducts business we

have no need of, til dawn.

Dream doors await

the cringing hinge,

a kiss walks down the hall,

the long slog begins

without moving.

Quit the day at last,

and sing pillows

to internal stars.

Will SchmitComment