Night Hours

All is still.

But is this an illusion?

A cricket chrips a lullaby.  

A tree branch rattles my window awake.

A dog bark slices through the night time mist.

A late night traveler shines sun on the yellow parallel lines painted on black rocks.

My mind wonders in and out of conciousness, colors swirling into forgoten pictures.

Am I awake?

A figure stands in the shadows of my sight, internal or external I may never know.

A creak of the floor boards conducts the midnight orchestra playing in my head.

But is it enough to wake me from my slumber, so real and far, yet false and close to the surface of my being.

Oh, my sleep, what is it anyways?

Only the keeper of the stars may know.