The night brings too much.
Emptiness, quiet, solitude.
Too much time for the mind to bend.
Too much time for imagination to move.
Too much time to think,
to let stand and soak.
Too much time for fears to sink.
Too much time to stoke.
Old embers of the dying sort.
The night brings their fiery retort.
Scenarios languidly crawl, mesh and mend.
Begin and end and begin again.
Unbridled visions of the open eyed sort.
Fiends and friends, games of an open court.
Play and play again.
They entice and twist.
Their who what when.
Open eyes, dears and fears.
Haunting mysteries in closed.
Worry, fret at awake.
Baited dreams at repose.
Racing at the mind’s behest
the psyche lies at unrest.
Respite at dawn, after climbing mountains steep.
My night, it won’t let me sleep.