Circadian Demons

like the fugues of trumpeted energy asunder

they come in the night

and spare not the day

they are the whirlpools of one's infamy

they play with the black

mock the white

softness is but a toy to them

until it's not

how difficult

this treading of water

avoiding the vortex that would

destroy the noiseless space of peace

that rests upon the staff of life's symphony

yet some will pause

and listen

to their levitation within

for the conscious know premature closure

is the obviating of nature's rationale

a few will awaken to the rush

the second and third movements

provide for the prepared

while others

finding the work unfinished

the last stanza needing more time

will scribe another page of their manuscript

and experience the pleasure of

circadian demons finding themselves

consumed by their nemesis

the unpredictable

 nighttime you