Writing by Daylight.

Writing by daylight is so different
from my usual habits, writing by night and allowing
sweet sorrows and esoteric diatribes to spill out of me
unashamed of them, as if the absence of the sun
would imbue my words with some sort of hallowed
respectability that by daylight they lacked.
It's bullshit, of course.
But in the light of day I feel as though
things aren't quite as revered as they are by nightfall.
Not just my writing, either.
I read secret histories of arrogant, stuffed-shirt
boys masquerading as men
who kill their friends and sit through funerals
in a narcotic, classical haze.
I read of Bacchic frenzies and Furies
and I am reliably informed that a young man
has no knowledge of what a Roman or a Greek
is.
What is more, he has no intention of finding out.
The words seem hollower to me, less real.
As if out from under the cloak of night
in the harsh scrutiny of the daylight
they cease to hold their horror, their tension.

I should steer this towards a conclusion
but daylight doesn't seem to demand that
which is a novel change.
So I won't.