Night is a cruel mistress,

always tempting one to,

misbehave,

when health and sanity,

cry out for sleep.

 

Sleep is a ghost dancing,

an outline visible,

intangible,

but it exists enough,

to speak of.

 

Sleep runs down a dimly-lit tunnel,

shaking and juking,

around each corner on the

winding road leading

to nowhere fast

and just far enough down

the rabbit

hole

to make one question

which way is up

although down is more important

at least on cold nights.