There is no good in a call

There is no good in a call

After midnight

When a blood moon filtered

Through heavy night blinds

Is a presage of disaster

A blind man’s fingers

Reaching for the jugular

The smell of lavender

Dragging the weary bones

Back to the pillow

The sandman’s golden dust

Still binding

Nothing about it is welcomed

Even the lonely owl

Has been disturbed

The pigeons in the gutter

Coo irritably

Quieting a new brood

Restless for the morning

When the eating starts

The spider stops

Spinning suspended

Water from a bedside glass

Dampening sleep dried lips

The voice still lost

Somewhere in dreamland

Refusing to attend

Questions need repeating

Answers left unsaid

Remnants of sleep

Broken from slumber

The spots that float

Behind the eyes

Atoms of destruction

Nothing can withstand

The power in the words

So softly spoken

It is a sad death

It always is

Although so late

It is before its time

Nothing good comes

Of any phone that rings

On your nightstand

After midnight