by Chris Sorrenti
Listen to them...children of the night...
what sweet music they make
- Bram Stoker, Dracula
Why is it I wrap myself in the flag of night so eagerly?
Fancy the caress of its fabric on my skin?
Could it be that as a child, it was denied to me?
While other children played on its mysterious avenues
I, tucked safely into impatience
For liberation, counting years instead of sheep
And now, at the halfway mark to immortality
I don my speckled armor:
Orion’s winter steel, Scorpius’ summer sting
All seven sisters of the Pleiades
Unabashedly claimed as my brides
But there are no monsters to run and hide from
Only Time, cruel master
Frightening me more than any vampire
For it takes all, gives no condolence
Amidst the duty maze of sunlit hours
Is it any wonder I yearn for the playground
Denied me as a child?
While those grown up children
Who once chased fireflies in my absence
Hurry little ones off to sandman
So mom and dad can play
And then falling asleep, ponder
How it is not daytime, but night
That gives true meaning to our lives
Graphic courtesy of Microsoft Clip Art
640 hits as of June 2020
Author's Note: Published (along with other poems) in the broadsheet: Reflections In A Time Machine (May 2003), Chris Sorrenti (Ottawa, Canada). Produced by Heather Ferguson.
Posted on 04/12/2013
Copyright © 2020 Chris Sorrenti
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 04/13/13 at 04:36 PM|
A fantastic dreamscape. Loved this.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 04/14/13 at 09:41 AM|
Daylight breeds contempt, but absence of light makes the heart go faster; I imagine you embarking on your night-time voyage accompanied by Metallica's dulcet tones...