Here you are again between the night and the razor blade;
The unconscious beating brain bargaining with the morning.
Your hands are so empty they may as well be called space,
They are clawing at the pillow beside you in the early rays.
No haste in waking, yet knowing the time is now you pace
The bedroom floor, the bathroom shower haze.
And it all adds up to nothing ventured nothing faced;
The ticking clock counts down the days
To where you would run in the meadows changed
From this earthly flesh into something blessed with grace.
© Phillip Mellor 2015