There's a quiet night of crickets,
echoing in the applauds of the handover of sun to moon
A mystic smell of dew, and a due of rest,
I've locked my eyes into a dream, listening to the
ticking wood of an old kitchen door,
It slowly creaks open, and closes rust on their iron hinges
as I'm hinged in thoughts; attached by my many fears,
and the darkness forms a latch,

               -And it's night becomes it's key
                 that unlocks my inner demons poetry