Night OwlMature

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,

Deep 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.


The End

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