If only the words would come,
shattering walls of frustrated musings
that my muse finds amusing,
or would, had she not fled the shadows
of nights with no end
other than another setting, sunrise


and the lights flicker on, flicker off,
flicker on, and on, and on...


blackbird singing at 11:59, not yet morning,
yet still mourning over tears unspent,
and I, in a sweat, just returning
to the hopes that I had in yesteryears


ghosts haunt from another's pages,
seems like ages since I've seen that grin,
and that slump, and that chump
that used to believe in dragons,
and kings, and mystical things,
and a hope that could change the ages,
turn the pages, in a novel half-written
full of glorious things, as if wings
rising high o'er the sun


yeah, that sun, still staring
as it's glaring on a cold new morn


and baldness, forlorn, starts to warm
from the vents, in the dash, midst the dash
to another rat's race


wait, that's not now, rather then,
then again, it will happen again
in just a few hours...


I'm thinking I should sleep,
but I don't, no I won't,
not like that, e'er again


e'er again






e'er again









err again




think that blackbird just caught my eye
in his beak, I'm so weak,
can't hold back



so I sleep



and right on the dot, 6:15, cold start
to the nightmares, now waking again