Dead Moon

Up late, past the dead heat, a dry
darkness of Summer's Midnight
moon.

Watching the patterns of
light through the broken plastic stripes.
Hearing the empty silence of the hour.

Immobile, a divinity placed upon
the seconds that pass, before a
respite, yet a harsh oppression.

Reality sets in, I decide to leave
as little remains in time, and so
I break the lonely, quiet peace
and reach out, hoping to grab it.