As the iron bars that wrap the night
creep in they hold me tight
a prisoner
and for what delight pray tell
should I spend these tiring hours in hell?
The windows laugh at me as they see me looking through and out into the gloom
and all I smell is doom
my bedroom is small and the evening is as tall as any giant
with foreboding
I stay quiet and wait.
Late.
It is late and there is no rebate to come from the warmth and joy that was the Sun
and it is cold
this terror I feel is not the least
for this night's no friend to man or beast
it is the cheat that plays the cards
the feral cat that like a baby howls in the back yards and alleyways,
and fat
the night is fat with jowls that sag
and drags its feet
across this man's back who failed to meet the sandman with his bag of sleep.
I weep
slowly
how slow the second hand takes to sweep around the dial
and slower still
the night creeps up and down my spine.
Even so
the night will go
I bear this thought in mind.