Poetry

Night yawns into its routine,
waking the hallways’ night queen.

No pin-drop, nor echoed kiss
dare be caught by this mistress.

If she should see you lurking,
you’d best admit to working.

Oh, procrastination,
mistress of fascination,

midnight bleach, narcotic fume,
shower now in her perfume.

Lest sun and moon unravel,
Silence rules from its shadow.

Photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash

They/Them | Software Dev | Chronically seeking orange juice | devon.wellsa@gmail.com

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