The Night

Loneliness strikes in the cold of the night
Upon the unwashed dishes and flames from the burning stove so bright

The dim lights in the room never fully turned off
Like a glimmer of hope staying alive for the dwindling heart

Books and literature often suffice the lonely
Solitude for days in a house so homely

There are silver linings somewhere to the gray cloud cover
Rain drops for hours to dampen the spirits of warm lovers

I stare at the ceiling at times listening to the clock tick
The words in my head picking at my heart like chop sticks

The nights no longer remember the stories of the solitary
We struggle to survive a darkness so customary

In and out of consciousness, the awakened blend with the sleeping
The rise of my chest ensuring that I am still breathing

When I rise in the morning, the night is a dream of the past
I roll over and out of bed to face the skies overcast

One thought on “The Night

  1. Pingback: The Night — Write up to the Moment | Phil Slattery's Blog

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