atop, the vistas are no longer
breathtaking,
there is no allure in trying to perch
on the highest points
instead, I'll clip my wings
and forage on the ground
for worms,
then, I hope I might be the early bird
for when the rest swoop down from
their intricate nests
I shall have had my fill
And, being wingless, I shall have my thrill
a chill,
an ice cold serpent slithers
on my back
and I lie still,
playing dead
these are the nights
running up and down chasing sleep
and when its within my grasp
a night crawls underneath my blankets
and devours it all
sleep becomes intermittent
coming in between long spells
of bitter wakefulness
thinking the same old thoughts
and when sleep is finallly roused in its slumber
the dreaded nightmares crawl for their feast
we were the kind the sought
refuge in the cold embrace of the night
we were the kind whom we thought
our souls were reinforced with concrete
but then we mellowed
and slipped into the graceful
cracks of life,
hiding in dark crevices
craving the sweet touch of solitude
in the wee hours of the morning
but alas!
nothing worked
nothing ever seemed to be
we are alone, aging horribly
waiting for trains that derailed
a long time ago
