It is one of those nights when things come out of nowhere,
dark disturbing things, vague
at the corner of connection, things
that make no sense, things that haunt
and taunt and pull your heart
into tiny bloody strings,
one of those nights when the demons are no longer content
to mumble under the bed.
Drunk with moonlight they dance
inside your head, babbling like the possessed,
making the most of their new-found freedom
full of dark laughter,
their claws red and dripping,
one of those nights when sleep is your enemy,
no longer bliss,
no longer a place of romance and refuge,
a thing to survived until morning,
when the son comes and grim reality
looks suddenly bright.
About this poem.
I actually slept pretty good last night. I wrote the poem around the picture, which was taken at a museum.
But I have had nights like that. Oh yes I have.