Night is the time to know things.
While the world worries with dreams
steeped in personal places of darkness
It’s finally quiet enough to think.
Daylight burns, so bright it blinds
becoming ash in hand.
Who can help but waste it?
Time rationed and valued
numbers and graphs—
the cost of living.
So I spend the day
in pursuit of problems
could sell my happiness.
Work days and weak,
like every body obligation wears
until it’s gone.
So the night is mine instead.
Why sleep away my leftover time,
scrape it into sleep’s blackness?
Who I am at night is truer,
when you question a sky
that never answers.