By: Nathan Hill~


Late night show insomnia,
left tossing in a bed.
While curled lips play mimicry,
to all the words unsaid.

Sentences soon find a pace,
that clocks won’t recognize.
As subtle light from early sun,
creeps into hazel eyes.

For fantasy or needed sleep,
decisions must be made.
A risked attempt to balance both,
becomes a lowered shade.

So bring to me these words again,
that I might weave them tight.
To wrap warm in their afterglow,
and sleep until the night.

© Nathan Hill. All rights reserved, a month ago