Personal Prose Pt.7

In the restful darkness, the inbetween.
The soft London glow creeps through a crack in the blind.
From across the room, it looks at me
Beckoning me to consider
That looming pale rectangle
And the distant pealing of church bells.
Heard only by those inbetween
And the quick mice that scurry from platform to doorstep.
Covering their faces in the fog.

Resisting the urge, my eyes closed
Awaiting the slippery blackness hovering at the edges of my mind.
I shift my languid body
Ignoring the flirtations of that pale rectangle.
Curiosity bristles
knowing there is no antidote of satisfaction.
I retreat into the restful darkness of the inbetween.

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