Hallucinations from four days of digging holes and sleep deprivation

A moonlit Night,

As cold wind bites,

And shadows gather ‘round.

The mental strain,

The aches and pains,

That draws one’s eyelids down.

But forced to stand,

Night strikes a band,

And gives the shadows roles.

A tune will rise,

As darkness writhes,

To taunt our tired souls.

The wind sets time,

Discordant whines,

Like strings played far too slow.

A ballet dance,

Trees shift their stance,

Mid-stage then to-and-fro.

And so they move,

Dance to confuse,

Our carefully watching eyes.

So we don’t see

What’s ‘neath the trees,

What moon-white grass can hide.

The wind’s whine peaks,

And starts to speak,

It whispers through the air.

As through the grass,

Great serpents pass,

We never see them clear.

Then it drops,

A silent shock,

Night calls the band to still.

And in between,

What’s you, what’s seen,

A portrait; not quite real.

Faces scream,

Then smile serene,

Colours clash then meld.

Reds and blues,

In every hue,

True tones which can’t be held.

And so your mind,

It shifts in kind,

And falls towards the canvas.

‘Til dawn alights,

To banish Night,

And raise you from its madness.