Recital from the Edge, onlooking the start

When does the night really dawn; or does it fall, as dusk?
When at the end of the month: adapting to foreign times, 
waking up at the departure of daylight.
Escaping the Sun, and the call from work on the weekend stretch.

When a friend visits far into the night—a brief talk, a moment of bliss, 
before duty should call.
Maybe a few more visits, made on the same night—to keep work off-bay—
give into another brief talk, a moment of laughter;
let what reason resides, in a common-restless mind:
spout curses of morality, foregone in promise of a friend, that kept you off work;
for a-minute long, a poor choice in hindsight.

On the fourth-night, the music’s put on pause—
a record bought by none, a poster once seen, on a fat-bugger’s wall.
And what’s then seen is a conglomerate in rise—
renewal of bad faith, and the dying night.
“The call shall be heard.” becomes a chant.
An instinct runs its course, even if so in dire phantom, all the way to fruition.
‘for a-minute too long, a poor choice in hindsight.’

The needle should stay on, perhaps for a few more days—
for as long as the weekend stretch.
Perhaps having that friend over, a couple times throughout the night,
isn’t all bad, or all jingles;
even if so in remorse, what’s the cost of a perspective never had?

            7th May 2025
            Byangshar Sanzhi.