As dawn peeks in through the window
in mustard light and misty garb,
the sleepless night, now old and grey,
an ashen shadow on the walls,
floats away with the silent breeze.

I am a mere spectator now,
watching as time withers and wanes.
In the faint light of early hours
blue thoughts and indigo dreams sigh,
after a futile night long wait.

You said you’d save the best for last
and come back to me like bluebirds
fly to their straw nests at sunset,
in brown, abandoned mailboxes
on green hilltops with gurgling streams.

Consecutive calendar months
with dark red crosses marked after
the time ‘tween the night-guard’ s whistle
and the rooster’s call speak volumes
of cold lies and desperation.

Names are etched on ribcages in
foreign scripts we can’t understand-
part scribbles, part graffiti art.
How do you remove needless names
if you cannot tell them apart?