Almost There.

Grey bubble of night surrounds the hours,
and binds them tightly with
no chance of light.

Makes air heavy with silence, empowers
each breath
with velvet plush sighs
in low shushed whispering sounds
of almost-there sleep.

Yet eyes will not close and weary mind
still alive
with words which swirl
like meteors trying to rise from pen
makes constant tries.

Hazy thoughts birth wordy love verses,
creep toward
sweet phrases and become
channeled by night-muse as poetic phase
overtakes me again.

Time dances slowly to dawn's first light
writing itself
into pieces, yet drowsy sleep is ever
quite near
to distract from sensible scribing.

Pen halts in mid-air as I almost succumb
clock tick-tocks, head nods and
I start counting sheep.