In this cool twilight

where we lay

and say our prayers

we grimace at each

sound that stills the

quiet moon.

The motorcade of misery

and bustle of metal cart;

these lashing tongues of

crunching words

bounce heavy on these slats.

Light plays against dark

without sleep

in its wide eyes.

I blink into the gloom

to recount

each retold story by the wise.

In this cool twilight

nestle deep into the

dreaming, ‘fore the

passing madness

finds a passing shine

upon the ceiling.