The superficial ticking drills itself into my mind,
Like an overindulged bass-line
I gaze out at the bruised plum of a sky,
That seems to me pugnacious,
Its taunts healed only by the gracious light
Of the reprimanding stars
Which glance at the sulking clouds
Like a mother, exhausted.
The fight is gone now out of the heavens
Which rather stare insolently as a
Once trusted friend that has turned its back,
Even the trees have altered their view.
They whisper and point towards the stalwart rooftops
Who sing me back to sleep.