In the night’s waking.

In the night I stir.

By whispered breaths woken, my eyes look upon the skewed mirror and see.

The endless milk white satin of the plains which no motion of wind may stir from sacred sleep.

I watch the unquiet hills, sculpted by hands more skilled than mine or those of any man.

Shadows veil the secret valleys, the hidden places of the world bound up in you. 

Lost in dreaming sleep is this perfect world of mine, as I should be.

And yet I cannot yet lay me down, for the damning elfin chorus calls me. Half heard words and fey promises so very softly spoken. 

Deeply do I watch the mirror wither stars have set but pale moonlight does yet remain despite the frost that steals my tears. 

There are no lies in sleep my world. 

I am fallen to this beauty, my senses beguiled by the night. The stillness of this perfection that cannot last. 

A gray wind stirs upon the white plains even as my own adoring breath. Yet the name they answer is not mine.

Dream on gentle world. Your truth is spoken. Wake not from gentle rest as comes the bitter dawn of knowing. 

A kindly way, a gentle departure. No false farewell or wishes for return. Be joyous my world. For in the leaving may you find a better keeper.

Weep not my world. 

Tis time and done.

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Published by

Jacko Steenekamp

To sum myself up is simple. I'm weird.

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