The nights have
always been the worst.
Sitting alone
with a drink
and some drugs.
Close to the
open window,
listening to
the sounds of
the night.
Passing cars and sirens,
a couple arguing
somewhere down the alley,
a whistle set loose
by one of the young
whose turn it
is now to
own the same
night that I
once did.
That slow and
lonely fog horn
sounding it's
warning every 45
seconds a quarter
mile out.
The mind filing through
the days events.
The failures
and the progressions
that weren't really
any type of
real progress at all.
Flipping through it all
in search of a reason.
Images flashing,
the infants smile
or that girls manicured
fingertips gently
along your face.
Magicly guiding
you into a kiss that you
knew meant nothing
to her at all.
Still drinking,
still using,
still counting the
seconds between the fog horns
sounds of the night.
Still trying to keep it all intact.
Mind,
Heart,
Body,
and Muse.
Waiting on a word,
a line.
Something to put
down and save
for the ages.
The nights are
the hardest,
that they've
always been.
But the night
is usually when
this magic
appears.
