It dawns on me at ten past three that I should be asleep and this thought that breaks into the dreams that wake me,makes me want to close my eyes,close out accumulated where's and why's,and I don't want the thoughts that dawn to ever have been born,
but
I know soon after three,thinking I'm awake I'll see,me staring at the hour in reverse,through the window of my mirror,it's perverse,I only want to be asleep at ten past three,when darkness flits across my drooping head,I see the batwinged angels with hardened hearts who with withered tongues once said,

'He's not dead,he's just pretending nor does he even think he's ending,just pretending,that's who he is and wants to be,an anonymity'

Batwinged angels have no heart,they like to stop you never start to help in any way,never have the day,just the night when I would like to tuck up tight and sleep,they keep me wide awake and take the dreams I'm in,pin them onto cartwheel dart boards,lords of mayhem that they be,
I really want to sleep at ten past three.
I really do.