Again the inky black
surrounding me like a no-longer-useful
mechanism of defense
Yet now I lay bolstered
by the rigid walls
of
a letter previously scribed
And tonight the bed is fertile
and the moment lies
in quiet wait
for a new letter on another night.

I am pushed by rising fury
hatred seething, screaming
and I always knew that dreaming
was something just for fools.

The frailty has broken
and all is bleeding
in some unseen disgrace
laughter in the corner
smiling brazen somehow daring
to look it in the face.

And after all,
for all pretence
of something more contrite . . .

It's just another letter
on another dying night.

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