This Time, Day or Night.

Hyacinth garden

Sometimes, I write simply not to hurry.

Thoughts about strange times gone astray.

Even now, sitting at my desk at 4:50 A.M.

Pulled by fretting in a clouded room.

Was I really there this time?

Who was I then at that time?

My joints feel like frost bitten, rusted iron.

A fated condition from long intervals of commuted sleep.

I miss times of relaxed enchantment.

Carefree state of freedoms dreams.

I guess my starry mind is still searching.

From top to bottom, with cycles around and around.

Like the cold chill of winter outside the window.

Other then my hand, mind and freewill, I am still.

I write not knowing, whether I should call my time, a new day or, another long night?

If you have ever been there, you know the drill.

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