Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two in the Morning
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
When the insolence of catalogued years
Accuses the restless sleeper of age
Sends him out night patrol, and back again
To ponder through the empty, sleepless hours
An Altar stripped of light and hope and dreams
A unmade sacrifice in swirling chaos
Pillows and sheets and life formless and void
Cold, vaporous blue light dying in the air
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
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