It’s 3am again,
the old guy next door
turns his radio on,
Barber cuts through
the silence with every
tortured string, he types
his poetry until the paper
walls weep, I listen to the
rhythm of the keys as the
gentle breeze makes the
curtains dance with the
sad symphony, as the
early morning sun throws
its lonely shadows onto
the pure white sheets
I think of war and peace …
Clay.M