the coffee's too bitter
and i'm losing sight
of a rose-colored dream
that tethers me to actuality.
i wish i could sleep but
the acridness permeates,
feeding my mind with a thought
that runs, and falls,
and caves in—
like a dying star,
devouring any hope of
a good morning's delight.
the unwelcome has now stirred awake,
so i hide between these words
and wait for salvation to
take me under its wing.
alas, the clock keeps on ticking.
maybe peace never visits at night.