When I have fears

in the small hours, fingers interlocked

behind my head, I search the hidden ceiling

straining to see any star beyond, even

on cloudy nights, the moon glow must

surely be lighting those linings they say are

silver, such is lore optimism, a blind treasure

hunt of blank heaven without a map,

an exercise in strained imagination,

tiring empty with the regret that comes

after midnight and far before dawn, the kind

of unfulfillment never found under a bright noon sun

sitting directly overhead, casting no shadows of doubt,

everything so easy to read, when you have no fear

of the mossy close showing only the blackness of darkness

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