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The hours have bones.
The apocalypse alarm clock
Is waiting to catch me asleep.
But there is no sleep, not here,
Not this far into the unimaginable,
This far into the realm
Of soul-twisting stress.
I am mortally weary.
And mortal.
Asleep at last!
And, shocked by the knowledge,
Awake ....
Alone in the turning fan,
In the layered air,
I have no true skinship with anyone but ghosts.

Copyright © 2004 Hugh Cook

Picture of front cover of ARC OF LIGHT poetry collection by Hugh Cook.

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