Confused: ‘hold me in your freezin’ arms before we have to go’ – snow patrol

I lie awake, a stoic and resolute body,
a statue, The David, with Venus’
constant, downward gaze:
my eyes open to the night’s clarity,
the vast pleroma seeps into my room.
my fingertips grip at the covers,
as if to hide my wakefulness from
the ceiling’s stare with eyes
unmoved and blank like mine.
someone stirs in the rooms above,
and I am reminded that life exists
but still unsure of where I fit –
I am the sickle moon always peeking
over the shoulders of Giants,
seeking my rightful spot to stand,
for there are those who believe
that there is happiness in only
moons that wane and wax, while
the aeons pass and flitter by,
just as I met Sophia and wished
my way into the family of Seth.
there is some lovely bliss in
living along the line of Cain,
some romance to the very nature
of what goes unmentioned,
but I lost such bliss and unveiled
the sick romance of one night awake,
and the many million to come.


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