Dead Of Night

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I wake on my own, so cold it has grown,
As the ice on my window spawns spiky white fingers.
I dread, the dead, of night.

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I'm thinking out loud, and see passing white cloud,
As the heat of my breath meets naked nightime like steam.
I dread, the dead, of night.

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No need to pretend, my heart will not mend,
As the tear from my eye hits the cold crinkled pillow.
I dread, the dead, of night.

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So much to be said, so little time dead,
As the words from my lips slip silently skyward.
I dread, the dead, of night.

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I will go back to sleep and the sunlight will keep,
My thoughts from growing too dark.
It's not good, or not right to dwell, in the dead, of night.
Keith Murphy©