sometimes the quiet of the night speaks to me
its whispers drifting into my head
and with its words come the feeling of heavy loads i may never have to carry
and futures that may never come true
but the worry leaves me shaking on the floor
i have yet to determine whether it is the quiet or the night that is responsible,
or the deadly combination that leaves me gasping for air
but,
whatever it is,
the air, while filled with nagging words of failed responsibility,
works as the calm before the storm
the last moment of safety
leaving me praying the night will never end.
