The hours before dawn

The hours before dawn are quiet,
waiting, a dull hush sits hanging
about me like a gentle lined
cloak.
I listen, to the wind
drift in through an open door
and cool as it stirs
the silent air
I should sleep
in these moments
but it does not
come.
I am gripped by the terrible
wakefulness of my mind
always sharp and aware
sensing hurts, and
recalling memories,
not lost to time's
haze.
I wish for peace
of spirit,
but find the black
dull monstrous
claws clutching
my heart.
Squeezing tight
when inwardly
I draw the air
into my lungs
and the voice
of the clawed-beast
within whispers
into my mind.
You are mine.
You will never
be free in life
Never to see
love.
Never to
know gentleness
about you.
It feasts
on my soul
bit, by tattered, bit
There is nothing
I can do, alone.
Help does not come.
So I sit, awake,
and wait.