Lying awake, almost midnight, rust sliding to white.
There is the sound of voices, out there in the night.
A woman, a little girl, hushed and secret, full of tears.
Echoing mutters outside my room, feeds pity, not fears.
Maybe Angela next door is watching an old ghost story.
Maybe the sleepless thoughts have found their quarry.
The woman, the little girl, so sorrowful and now so lost.
The night going to witches and their hour is now crossed.
The wind demands that the windows tremble in fear.
After a moment, those voices fall away, and disappear.
Angela loves ghost stories at night, when she cannot dream.
The TV low, but it carries in the cold air, on a pale moonbeam.
The woman, the little girl, so full of sadness, speaking so low.
What did I hear? Only the trembling panes can ever show.
The dead of night without dreams.
Sleepless, sitting in a darkened kitchen,
drinking piping hot coffee, looking out
on the street lit only by sickly streetlamps.
The demons run riot, kicking up a stir,
though I may look calm, and dead eyed stare,
out at the quiet world that gets to rest.
The demons always run riot, never let me be.
The coffee is hot, and harsh, and bitter,
and it keeps me connected to this world,
and it’s alkaline pleasures and hard touch.
A simple thing on a sleepless night.
A ritual to get through, as reverent in it’s
banal steps to make something I don’t need
as any religious ceremony, made for communion.
A ritual for one, who is not even a supplicant.
Maybe for a moment, just a moment, there is
quiet and the demons winding down to gnaw
on a pleasurable memory or a tender place so sacred.
Maybe I can distract them with some anger or bitterness.
Soon, the day begins, and I put on my smile and laugh
and go through it all again, as the demons ruin everything
and nothing sacred stays in my heart, and the devil beats
his wife on a sunny day, that is just a well lit rainstorm.
Telepathic starlings told me here name, as they dived and swirled in a blue and cherry morning.
Her name, on her heart and the rays of the warming sun, and the defiantly reflective moon now.
A name can made a god in troubled time, an icon in the dark of a room, privacy of a song in headphones.
Walking in the still cool morning, the ripening morning becoming the flower of youth as I pass old places
where the war in heaven was fought and lost, and only a unstable and desperate moment believed won,
years later, years after the scare were permanent and the wings clipped, only seeds remaining to flower.
She might be there, at the end of the road, tree lined and by fenced in fields gone fallow, as birds starve.
She might be a friend, but I want only that, though I want her as lover and wife, I must turn away that dream.
Tips buy time and the illusion of light, but I cannot touch the real light now, having fallen so far, so far below the ground.
And her name makes the nights full of words and paradises constructed from imaginings desperate, sweet and mad.
These worlds the name opens up will suffice, as I wait for the hangman and the stillness that pleads for me.
The stillness in the night, we’re music stops, and dreams can’t be bothered, and sleep is a drug of no import.
The Garden of Gethsemane, on a sleepless night,
Feeling as all light has fled, even starlight has turned
It’s back, the moon fucked off too, just the glow of
A phone as I try to distract myself from how I feel.
In the garden, no disciples or companions stay awake,
No one to help soothe The Devil whispering, picking,
Trying to push me to something drastic, foolish, irreversible.
Take revenge on a world of fools, or just put yourself in the ground.
A video, a wholesome young woman modestly dressed, sings
Of Jesus and his love, but I don’t feel him near, he won’t stay
Up even one single hour himself, but I listen to her sing, her joy
And her adoration, wondering if it’s joy or a betrayer’s kiss.
In the morning, if I make it, if The Devil doesn’t win this night,
And I’ll try to hold onto the light of this young woman singing,
Her heart pure and so sure of the light that fell dim on my eyes,
As all around me the world burns and His Children stoke the flames.
The rain is the only soothing thing in the night.
Maybe I’ll turn on the radio to the classical music
Or the sappy love songs that let me dream of
A sweeter, more beautiful world.
These nights when I cannot sleep, full of dread,
And regret but not the tears that could wash it
Away and let me begin again.
Way back in sophomore year, before I pulled
A Lucifer and fell from grace, pulled and Eve and
Took that forbidden knowledge, I dreamed of
Her, and my heart was full of wonders.
I stayed up all night, playing that song on repeat,
That made me feel the warmth of her, the light of her
On my heart even when though she wasn’t there,
Just conjuring the life I wanted to live with her.
What wonders the world and love held then!
What sweetness was there in the stars!
All these years later, the night is bitter as almonds,
And it’s hard to find sweetness in the life I’ve come to.
Scraps of the otherworld that use to come so easily.
I turn on the sappy love songs, trying to call that girl back,
To call back my own innocence, and sweetness of youth.
I hear that song that I made a hymn to her.
Finally I find some peace, and some sleep.
The sun isn’t up and it’s cool, something soothing for me.
Alone, quiet, maybe the roar of rage with fade away for now.
I don’t know what to do with it at all, what can be done anymore.
I dream of us having a beach vacation in South Carolina, happy in the sun.
I dream of holding her hand and holding her and holding on to a sweet thing.
I dream of some perfect life with her, to chase away the rage eating me up.
Just count to ten, thinking of her face, and all she makes me believe in again.
And sleep, just a little more peace, just another chance to dream, to be an angel.
The sky in the city has no stars, but we can fill our hearts with the universe, if we choose.
Try to smile and be friendly, not give an angry ass retort.
I’m not a servant. I am not a slave. I am here to help only.
I don’t like smiling thought it. I don’t like being so lonely.
I lay on my side, curl up, wish there was someone else here.
Wish there was someone to share my world with, without fear.
Spotify kicks in with a sad ballad playlist, and sad almost feels good.
At least it’s not hate, and bitterness, resentment, turns heart to wood.
I’ll be happy and in love and a hero as the starry shadows slowly creep.
Morning will be here too soon, and I’ll have to face it, and be strong again.
This world is sorrow and tears, and I swear I can never ever seem to win.