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Night
by Greg Williams
Reminisce far beyond what needs real thought,
nothing more to do late at night,
well not a lot.
Fingers reach out stretching yet can’t be seen,
fumble around for street light,
back in pockets again.
Chilly, its cold,
desolate and alone,
wondering where the party is,
oh the bars, they’re closed.
Must be 3, maybe 5 it all becomes the same,
living in the only time of a calendar day,
where nobody has a name.
02/21/2009 Posted on 02/22/2009
Copyright © 2024 Greg Williams
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/22/09 at 03:25 AM A hell of a tribute to the insomniacs. We thank you. Heh. Great work, man. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 02/23/09 at 02:12 AM Hmmmm, that first line - where the brain just can't take a hint and shut down - I can sooo relate. I enjoy the gentle rhyming in this and the sense of looking in on the old bar, Cheers, with nobody there and nobody to welcome and say, "Norm!!!" |
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