The Silent Hours

The silence of the cold dark night,

The hours rushing towards the midnight strike,

The chill burns upon one’s face,

The world questioned as it’s seems dreamlike.

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Eerie calm outside the windows glow,

A call of a curlew as it defends its nest,

Then the silence screams incredibly loud,

The twilight hours some love the best.

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A train horn sounds off in the distance,

The clackety clack of its travels abound,

The loudest call is the ringing in the ears,

While the world slumbers without a sound.

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The weary eyes begin to droop in protest,

But the brain races with the weight of suffering,

Round and round the thoughts jumble,

No control and certainly no buffering.

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The impossible to-do list rolls on and on,

The heartbreak of rejection felt over and over,

The worry of the future thrown into the mix,

Knowing the morning’s going to feel like the worst hangover.

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Body weary of the tossing and turning,

Begging for a break in peaceful slumber,

The mind has been hijacked against better wishes,

As anxiety and worry mount in number.

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Dreams patiently await their turn,

Ready for when the subconscious takes control,

For sleep must eventually win its battle,

Allowing the peace to heal and console.

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The silent hours can be friend or nemesis,

The golden hours or the loneliest nights,

Some good, some bad, some mediocre,

It’s up to our mind when we turn out the lights.

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Originally published on Medium