Lee McCormack

Morning Dew

We all have a Daemon that we love,
a shadow, the desired premonition of
what we will become as the sun
sets behind the crooked spine
of mountains created and defined
by our fears and hope combined.

For each thing we know there is another
not so certain, as if crooked lace curtains
smother the windows we stand before
dreaming in our waking sleep the world
will keep us safe until the moment when it all
unravels, comes undone, as if there is no

more future left for this experience
we are hurled into without consent
and resist by the compulsions we live for.
But I love the dark shadows we each cast —
not the daily future or the past but this
intent to stay every day more human and alive.

No matter what we do, we try to survive
with the daemon that steals our heart
and strives to eat in it hunger while
this body is alive. Because of this I love
the earth and you. I love the endless dirt,
the sorrows and the blues, this humanity that

at every twilight dies and wakes each morning drenched
with hope’s illusions and blood’s sweet, pulsing dew.

LHM © 2.09.2016

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