Mourning
is how the early day feels
before the sun
has risen.

The limbo between what some call yesterday
and others call tomorrow.
Sunlit moonshine sprinkles down,
seasoning an insomniac's omelette
with the silver pepper of stars.

Add a pinch of diced night mist,
a smidge of lost sobriety,
a paper,
a pen,
and your dish is best served sloppy.

An introvert's enigma:
will the night sky judge me for what I do beneath it?

Sleep is a foe best fought
with a little fire in the belly--
poured speedily down,
sent off by clinking ice and shuddering skin.

You can teach a mind to be nocturnal--
any fright can become a freak's new friend.
Fear can only flow in one direction.
Point it in,
and it can't pour out.