Cracks Of Night

Staring through the dark of night
I can just about make out the ceiling, cracks and all.
It’s a battered fading plain of white like a rolled up piece of paper
Flattened back out again. It must have witnessed
Some disturbing truths to be so utterly glum.

I wonder if my slumber will antagonise the aching lines further
Only to come limping back to me like wounded soldiers?
I think of all those who must have laid here before me –
Those who must have emoted the cracks I now stare at.
I imagine all those dreams that were held here before mine.
And now with these thoughts the cracks become more vivid
And I can understand their perpetual tree-branch crawling:
I think failures caused these cracks, or perhaps, just perhaps
The mere stupidity often associated with our species.

I wonder if my sleep will weather them further?
Or heal them to the very core?
I long to be taken away to a dream less mean
Where everything I know will not be like this stream
Of sheer systematic bashing in a world that’s crashing.

by Seán O Muiríosa

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