PHkristonecold
Honorary Poster
by Graham Craven
When demons pick at my troubled mind
And the passage to sleep becomes harder to find,
I close my eyes, turn out the light
And listen to the music of the night.
First there's the silence, looming and menacing,
The audience lies waiting, patiently listening.
My heart is racing; it's pounding and deafening.
The taste of tension is sour and sickening.
Outside the wind blows a sweet, sad refrain
That plays on repeat again and again.
It builds to a crescendo, stormy and wild
Until it blows over and breathes like a child.
The rhythm of the night train's clickety-clack,
'The Moonlight Sonata' for insomniacs.
It's a song of love and another heart broken
When so much is said without a single word spoken.
A dripping tap becomes a cacophony,
The percussion in my moonlight symphony.
Every drip...drip...drop performed in the overture
Is a well-rehearsed line in my sleepless torture.
The hymns of miners lost in the gloom
Are sang by angels as they circle my room.
Voices that flicker like light from a flame
Are swallowed by the coal-black from which they came.
Birdsong at dawn, a heavenly choir,
Brings me to rest and my eyes start to tire.
While sunlight chases my demons away,
I fall asleep gently to the sounds of the Day.
When demons pick at my troubled mind
And the passage to sleep becomes harder to find,
I close my eyes, turn out the light
And listen to the music of the night.
First there's the silence, looming and menacing,
The audience lies waiting, patiently listening.
My heart is racing; it's pounding and deafening.
The taste of tension is sour and sickening.
Outside the wind blows a sweet, sad refrain
That plays on repeat again and again.
It builds to a crescendo, stormy and wild
Until it blows over and breathes like a child.
The rhythm of the night train's clickety-clack,
'The Moonlight Sonata' for insomniacs.
It's a song of love and another heart broken
When so much is said without a single word spoken.
A dripping tap becomes a cacophony,
The percussion in my moonlight symphony.
Every drip...drip...drop performed in the overture
Is a well-rehearsed line in my sleepless torture.
The hymns of miners lost in the gloom
Are sang by angels as they circle my room.
Voices that flicker like light from a flame
Are swallowed by the coal-black from which they came.
Birdsong at dawn, a heavenly choir,
Brings me to rest and my eyes start to tire.
While sunlight chases my demons away,
I fall asleep gently to the sounds of the Day.