A Stranger In The Night

The sky is dark as you unfold the sheets,
Slip inside your chrysalis.
Metamorphosis is waiting for you.
The breathing slows.
Soft moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Eyes awake and staring,
Unseeing,
Into the semi-darkness.
Hopes playing across the glazed corneas,
And dying in the shadow of the lashes.

Tuck the sheet over properly.
Introspection calls,
But the cell waits for morning.
Ticking counts the moments till dawn
And synapses of your brain.

Still images of 23 waking hours:
All too much for an hour of privacy.
The pillow pads the thoughts,
Business suits and combat boots
Disposed for the night.

“Am I still me?”
The question begs.
And hangs unanswered,
Between the covers of the book
That you’ve been meaning to read.

Shadow puppet plays
Of the next 23 hours.
Hopes written into scripts
Which are discarded among
The tissues in the wastepaper bin.

Half an hour left.
Still breathing?
Eyelids flutter,
Brows knitted in,
Sleep’s effort.

Doubts and fears
Are the currencies of your mind.
Traded by the barrel,
Fuelling themselves,
And you up into the morning.

Sleeping pills and a glass of water:
Doctors’ orders.
But the carpals,
Plagued by meaningless lingo,
Scream for the aspirin.

15 minutes to go.
Troubles melding
Into one dream figure:
Bosswifekidstaxesdiabetes.
Newspaper headlines’ monsters.

Count the imaginary sheep.
Hope for a ‘good morning’
From the people.
Your 12 second interaction.
12 minutes to go.

Maybe the god in the machine
Will answer the prayers
Whispered under your breath,
Hands folded in pockets,
Sunglassed eyes glancing warily skyward.

Another day,
Another dollar,
Another email,
Another signature,
Signing away the moments.

2 minutes:
Digital displays throw out into dark.
Soft sheets and pyjamas.
Low light and light snoring.
The moon sets.

Beep!
23 hours to go.