12am* and imagining
a play on the dark ceiling
1.30am and relieved
for the 5 hours before light
but slumber is a deceptive guy
who lingers just out of frame
3am and wondering
when the sun will rise
end this torture
of lying awake
wanting to sleep
but being disturbed by
slices of daytime memories
haunted by the
ghost of tomorrow
6am and fatigued
wary of sleep that
comes in loose scraps
the sunshine peeks through
and it's time to live out
last night's tomorrow
which will metamorphose
into tonight's insomnia

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow’ret of its gem—and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
’Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man’s denied to know,
Until he’s called to claim it in the skies.

Yearly, yearly I knew you dearly --
Watched you blossom and sincerely
Hope to be more than merely
A seed without the sun.

Yearly, yearly I held you dearly --
Sown deep in the ground and growing nearly
As stretched as the sky and you now clearly
A seed within the sun.

Yearly, yearly I loved you dearly --
Nurtured as nurtured rarely austerely
Intertwined as death lets us be
Two seeds beneath the sun.

It's safe in daylight, you know.

I drive through my crumbling suburbia
Over all of its bumps and cracks
And feel so small, yet so
Infinite.
Feeling loosely connected
To every signpost,
Every stray cat,
Every filled and vacant house.
Part of a chain that runs its course
Across the entirety of existence.
I am a spectator, an observer of
Humanity though, admittedly,
Not quick to a level conclusion of it.

Yes, days are safe. They are familiar.

But it's dusk where the malaise sets in,
A disturbance that unsettles the muscles
Under my skin
And has me toss and turn for hours on end.
It's night where I trip barefoot
Over every folly,
Every small tick in the course of my life
In a path strewn with broken glass.

It's where the realms between your sanity
And where your demons sleep
Grow the weakest,
Churning your head with static and poison
And constantly reminding you
How easy it is to find your own faults,
How difficult it is to say,
"I love myself."

I wonder most nights when this all started.

I wonder every night when it'll stop.

I placed the roses you gave me
in a vase on my bedside
unaware of the pistol
you placed in my mouth
until I pricked my tongue
on a thorn.