Wakefulness

When uncanny lucidity plagues the wee hours of my consciousness
the tick-tocking of the plastic clock is almost deafening
with my arm under my feather pillow my sighs like bellows.
It never matters what my days are like.

My feet cold, I'd rub the soles against each other
the sshhk-sshhk sound of friction a comfort I relish.
Sleep eluding me though weariness tugs my very lashes
I'd glance out the window at the twinkling and flashing city lights.

Above the silhouette of lighted sky-scrapers the sky glowed
burgundy, maroon, indigo and sometimes even slightly yellowed.
As if some haloed grounds lay beyond the concrete and metal,
where moonlight bathes the world with silvery fondness.

Such nights, the morning after is difficult.
I'd awaken haggard and parched groping for the coolness
of cavernous stillness one could find within Sleep's embrace.
Such is the last refuge of one as reclusive as me.

Nevertheless out of my iron-clad nest into the loveless world
I'll drag myself. My compliance wearing thin as the days grow shorter
the chilly air a testimony to my silly pining for solitude.
The winds howl coldly, the leaves fall into atrophy, I'll lose myself into eternity.