Night becomes me, a perfect match of

Inner conflicts like dark waters crashing

Against all conscience thought, I lie

Awake in a bed of turmoil, sheets twisted

By my restlessness, eyes focused on the tip of

A half-smoked cigarette, as a lost traveler

Might focus on a single point of light across

An unknown distance, in a land that has never

Borne witness to boot heel or walking stick.

Yes I embrace these shadows, swaying

Imposters that mimic the trees just beyond

My windowpanes, they caress my body with

Ethereal discontent and I wonder if perhaps

They seek those hidden tides in which I

Flounder, that common bond whose roots

Are seldom exposed by the light of day, yet

Singled out when darkness falls, in the voice

Of a haunted wind that compels those shadows

To

Dance…

END

Conflicts Of Night