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T.R.E.A.T.S. #10 – Night Owls Don’t Wear Mortarboards

The clinking of a spoon

Against the inside of a glass

Is its own midnight chime,

For eyes that open wide

While others close.

Windows glassy, clear,

Soon to become foggy

From too much mental steam.

Eyes that swim through

A liquified soul, change states,

Evaporate, somewhere

Close to heaven, but a

Stone’s throw from hell —

They say it’s all in

The mind anyway,

So mind your mirrored walls.

Seven years of this luck,

All glasses still intact.

Half empty or half full:

Either way you’ll top it off

Before hitting bottom.

Sip greedily — as you would

From the Fountain of Youth —

Your consolation prize for adulthood.

The window reflects your

Image singled out by the

Light, a fun house mirror.

Turn the switch off,

Only to fear your lack

Of presence in the dark

Before turning it on again.

The house winks at your neighbor,

Or maybe your neighbor’s wife,

Whose very own window

Is but a stone’s throw away.

The ringing in your head

Is a wake-up call

You can’t remember

Whether you dialed or answered.

No tick, no tock, just

A persistent buzz.

People floating in glass

Houses shouldn’t dial phones.

(“Dick!”) (“Cock!”) (“It’s twelve o’clock!”)

Midnight has struck twice.

Oh, trained conductor of

Sin, derailed by your own measure:

Does the glass slip or fit

In your hand this time ‘round?



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