At night things get quiet,
Soft from the hard day.
The people grow tired,
The music dies down.
The effects of this pattern takes hold of many,
And forgets about a few.
Insomnia driving them together,
To the clubs and the bars.
Some to the comfort of a bed,
Never used for sleep,
But the thought of sleep.
The illusion of rest,
For the unrestful army.
Searching for a muse,
Finding it in the siren song of a voice.
Like their own, softened by the night air.
It may not be an angelic call,
Maybe a hard rocker with a soul.
The tranquil melodies you hear at the end of a set,
When all have left.
But the restless regiment, they stay for more.
Even though the powers gone off,
The lights are out.
The lonely light of a cigarette resting nearby,
And the voice of a lone musician.
What does he sing for?
No one’s left.
Their faces cannot be seen.
But he plays on,
His heart pouring out to the empty seats,
The echo is the only answer to the voices.
The booth is now empty,
The tape is still rolling.
This is a good end to the night,
An eerie drone in the back of your mind.
Putting you into an insomniatic dream world
Between death and sleep.
Never really awake, but never asleep.
What does this say about life then?
Living is really not knowing if you’re dead,
Or just waiting to live for the first time.
This will go out at the end:
Of an album, when everyone has forgotten to listen.
Of a hard day in a long life of living.
Or at the end of a soft and peaceful night.
In which death can come
And not one of anyone would know.
It may have even happened two yesterdays ago,
Or even five Tuesdays from the end of Friday.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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