There was a young man who was dead tired.
He stood by the half finished mess,
And he watched the clock strike him down.
He cut the lights off and lick his thumb.
Wipes saliva on mosquito bites and
He prays with hands hugging each tight.
He prays for
better days,
better luck,
better things,
better self without execution,
longer sleeps,
younger sleeps.
To the East
the moon was behind thin clouds,
It was
most beautiful in the
Bewitching night sky.
And he lives in the suburbs.
There is not enough
light
to block it out.
There is not enough
cloud
to block it out.
But there is enough of both to
make him believe,
As he ganders over the living room,
He simply forgot to kill the lights on balcony.
And he was,
Too tired to do it.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PuisiA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
