Its that time of the night again,
And sleep is not a friend
So much for the alluring darkness craves
A tired aching brain.
Shallow and full of empty pores,
A moon without its glow;
Its shadow floating, silent, still,
Above the ground below.
And eyes search the looming thunderclouds
For the distant sounds of life,
The dormant rumbling of a tired heart
Such images can connive.
Does this then mean that darkness shall
With sunrise lift its veil?
Or does the conjurer's wand, dismayed,
Break its evil spell?
For there in the endless ticking of
The mindless hanging clock,
My day runs from dusk to dawn
My dauntless dreams of rock.
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