Turn the page

I don’t mind waking up to the promise of what might come along,
night though
is the ocean across which I row and sometimes I sink

the reaper sleeps while the leper keeps watch and the second hand turns into the hour glass which shows no reflection.

sucked into the bubble
I am collapsible,

avoid the parable
don’t read the bible
the devil
plays mah jong
and what might come along
might not.

So
I turn the page
find my broken heart
inside
a rib cage
everything’s a trap
and
everything’s
a promise

that’s why we wake.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.