9 Past 0
Visions of rainbows have become
And they are harsh and unfeeling.
They are cold,
Keeping to themselves.
And yet they will surround you,
Drowning your conciousness.
A column of blazing red and orange,
Cast off beams from a lonely lamp.
Water to the thirsting one,
The desert wanderer in me.
The roads far from my window
Has yet to sleep.
The endless stream of noise,
Grunting, roaring and screeching.
My eyes grow weary,
Of staring at this shifting blackness.
The sandman has been to visit,
And they close on this scene at 9 past 0.