Hush, Crooned the Night
Here I sit on this night so still,
not a rustle in the leaves
nor a stirring in the grass.
No whispers intrude; naught but mine.
Ill news after days spent ill,
unwelcome foreword to grief
inexorable more like than not.
No answers come; naught but malign.
A thirst I can never quell,
a gulp seeming to smash the silence
whilst whiskey spars with the fear.
No solace is on tap; naught but fake.
A call from inside breaks the spell,
an urging for sleep's cocoon
next to a lover's warmth.
No closure can I find; naught but striding on.
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