At the darkest point in the witching hour
where crickets cry and the wind sieves through the leaves
the horizon smothers the final lights that dwindle across the valley
the hanging clouds float like behemoths
faintly tained with a yellow smudge
As I rock in my chair, I try to console my
sleepless mind though always riddled with exhaustion
not another book in a pile can silence the thoughts
the thoughts always brewing at the back of my head
while the front of my head looks at the canvas of light and sound
and hopes that if it thinks of nothing more
nothing more could get worse