11:00 PM

11:00 PM

by Nate Sumislaski

 

midnight moon creeping up behind my back

and as eyes glare

beyond the horizon of desperation,

I’m praying for thunder.

Is it more or less moral than hoping for lightning?

 

anyhow,

my heart in the house of life

brings me back to death

for my hours are short

and my minutes shorter.

 

Do Beauty, Truth, Revolution

mean anything anymore?

well,

maybe not now Love

 

but they did at some point

 

in Time,

I will breath my fatal breath.

 

That I can be certain of

 

to inhale the black poison

of your heart

was worse

than all the alcohol I’ve ever had

 

and you used to seem like a crescent moon

in your youth

or maybe my youth’s imagination

but you were there.

I’m certain.

and I never got to know you

barely even said “Hello.”

 

is the blood stained on my saddle?

or brown brisk branches snap

like that one picture I have of you on my phone?

 

I tried to forget everything we had together

but it’s almost midnight

and the moon has clouded my           mind.

 


Nate Sumislaski is an English major at the University of Connecticut. In his free time, he enjoys strumming an acoustic guitar, going on hikes in deep and treacherous woods, and listening to Bob Dylan (but never all three at once).

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Author: The Slag Review

A quarterly print and online lit mag

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