Sonnets

Sonnet I

Clock ticks 12, yet sleep has still naught but come
Why ever not? Lights are off, air is cool,
Wind has died, and a new peace has entered
But yet there is so much left to complete
A void, begging and screaming to be filled
But what's another day? Must it not wait?
With each hour, the conflict becomes more dire
If the trance has naught yet come, it shan't
The days shatter away, all blurred in one
The months shall go by, in the same pattern
Followed by years, oh my, what husk is left?
Naught but an empty shell of hopeless dreams.
    The clock ticks 1, but what even's the point
    We know how this story ends anyway.