Black sky

A black sky
covers my body whole,
but the mind is unruly—
toes fidget
at the limits
of what can be done,
and in the night-time I grow older.

Restless rain clouds
swarm the mind,
each raindrop is a thought:
thrashing towards the ground,
crashing cymbals—
it’s hard to sleep in the rain.

The night air silence is deafening,
it sits upon my inner ear,
blowing hard
inside the anatomical tunnel,
keeping the rain clouds swirling and twisting;
like a mother using a pair of bellows
on a boiler room fire—
children screaming with headaches.

Time goes faster
as dawn draws near,
alarm bells signal an awakening—
what is now lost cannot be returned.
Time to walk in the rain,
an anorak is not needed,
and silence can no longer be heard—

it sleeps behind my ear lobe
until the black sky returns.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Lost Things.

David Hanlon is from Cardiff in Wales, and has recently moved to Bristol in England. He believes the reflective nature of his current studies in Counselling, and the artistic influences of his previous degree in Film Studies, have engendered this new creative endeavour. He has work published online with Fourth & Sycamore and Ink Sweat & Tears, and forthcoming on Amaryllis and Scarlet Leaf Review.

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