Hollow

The night is hollow

the seeds of it have dried

over many weeks 

until it feels weightless 

in my hand

that’s the feeling that I have

never loved 

the dissonance.

I’m not eager for tomorrow 

some mornings I can

anticipate joy

catching me up in its arms

some days the poem

is kindling in me with the sun

and some days 3am stretches

like an eternity 

with nothing before it.

I hope that in the morning 

my inspiration races to find me

and I’m afraid of hoping 

because 

the spectre of disappointment 

looms over me like a 

dark hill 

overshadowing the sunrise

and the promise of coffee.