Jacob Clarke

The pale moon wanes across a dark, scattered sky.
Dark shadows grow longer across the ceiling.
Sharp breaths can be heard from a room nearby,
All else is still.

Raindrops break the silence, of a man in thought
Perched upon a window sill, like a bird, surveying.
Dim light glistens upon old wooden floor boards
Click, and their souls are extinguished for the night.

A deep, distant rumbling moves along the curb,
Light pierces the room for a brief period of time.
Thin walls and squeaky springs - a reminder.
With unperturbed empathy; the night goes on.

The large bird clambers from the window;
Heading beneath the floor boards to rest.
Drawn away from intimacy, he flees
From all but the idea.

Aside from a mild taste of bitterness, all are at peace,
Contentedly dreaming about thoughts of past or present.
Perhaps more than one mind isn’t claimed by sleep
But still, the house slowly breathes in unison.

Colours blur and fade into one as the mind resigns.
A feeling of sheer smallness descends,
Like the world wrapping around itself.
Away with the night we go.