Morgue Melancholy

Noctophobia

I think I'm afraid of the night.
Not the dark, mind you, there's a difference,
It's not the creeping of the shadows or the noises in the black,
It's the feeling of the hands of time,
Forever winding,
Never stopping,
It's the time, in the twilight,
when you face your thoughts alone,
The voices in the shadows, the ones that pick and prod and worry,
Belong to you,
And the only way to stop them
Is sleep that refuses to come,
No matter the tossing or turning,
Or begging for quiet,
And the wondering for those far beyond your grasp,
And the painful longing of relationships far gone,
And the hope in your heart that they share in your sorrow.
It's the irrational feeling that something has gone wrong,
the one that keeps you up,
The one that says if you go to bed, you'll never wake again,
It is the night that disturbs me,
Not the dark, never lasting.
The time that's only me alone,
The Cycle everlasting.