Late is the Hour
Late is the hour, from which I stand,
and yet, sleep does not take me to its land.
I curl upon the shores of my bed,
Dreading the time,
Wishing I were dead.
*
Then a note sounds in the distance,
I hear a stranger noise- insistent.
The bells are tolling,
And ringing in my head
No other form of worry
but dread.
*
For the time is late, and the bell keeps tolling,
Forcing my brain to spin in a jury.
Arguments arise, as I try to shut my eyes,
And yet no agreement shall come to rise.
The battle begins as I scream and shout
“You’re doing it wrong,
Now just shut up!”
Yet their voices shout back in my head,
never dulling for the words I spent.
*
Hours pass, or maybe days,
yet the night is still dark
like a haze.
The bells have stopped,
the yelling ceased,
and yet I’m exhausted.
I think it’s time to sleep…
Story of the Day 