Night Owl sounds a playful term,
For the sleepless, nightmare-disordered hours,
The blur and blend and bruise,
The days of red-flooded eyes and violently purple rimmed eyelids,
Hollows of blue-black embedded with grey-blue,
Staring at a dark, shadow-veiled ceiling,
That only logic tells me is there.
Red-hot to silver-cold,
No sense of time,
No time to sense.
Everything is just darkness,
Cold, dark hour before dawn,
Before silver tendrils creep in the window like vines.
Warmthless light of a sun concealed in a shroud of clouds.
Finally giving in to the habit of a lifetime.
"You're up early!"
The usual remarks.
I'm not 'up',
I was never down.