I wake up in the dead of night.

I’m of that certain age where this is common circumstance.

Nothing to summon the doctor for.

The stars stare through my window as if daring me,

Challenging me to do something, anything.

Perhaps they are simply laughing at me.

Who knows?

But the dead of night is not for doing something, anything.

The dead of night is only there to be tolerated.

It’s a fierce and unforgiving blankness,

Something I must abide, endure…stomach until the morning arrives.

It is a standoff until I stumble back to sleep again

Or until the sun forces its way into the sky

And tells the dead of night to wait,

Wait until its time comes again.

So tell me what you think.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s