Once again the night has come,
It strips me of my sleep;
It opens my door and takes a walk
Before mind to inspiration yields.
I think the word must be 'thief'.
It empties my everything of joy,
I fear it hides, perhaps is blind
To the streetlamps scattered
Like modern candles outside.
And so I must remain,
Trapped in solitude and thought.
Often enough, unable to escape-
Now and again, finding my way,
By a glass of water or song played.
But these glasses of water I pour,
They force away the land of nod;
They tend to stray, take the long way
From a reality I long.
Still, while I wait for the intelligence
To see the puddle in which I stand,
My reasons not to sleep
Provide an answer greater
Than the sum of its parts,
Equally shallow, as they are profound.
Perhaps tomorrow is to blame.
It makes the chaos strangely sane;
It plants a thought, seems to ignore
The insomnia that plagues my soul.
Because, in last night's dark light
An answer slept silently in my bed.
While I, sitting opposite, shook my head,-
And contemplated in wonder-
Where irony would take me next.
