In the dead of night.

Sitting alone in the dead of night,

hardly a thought in the steamy heat;

yet words arrive on the screen,

light against the brooding dark,

and I sit becalmed before the words run again,

knowing that at any second my head could loll

forward bringing sleep to my worn out body,

as it has done on  many nights lately,

I gird my thoughts from the darkness of death

to the troubles of our world,

but its hard to forget all my idols

who have died, but the vultures

walk miserly round my mind waiting to pounce,

and I can see my self cowering,

but using what thoughts, energy

and fight that I have left,

to dream and conjure up

another poem to aid our world.

 

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