3am
the Reapers happy hour
and the sturdy finger of fear
pokes in my
sleep deprived eye
once again
snatching the breath
I desperately
scramble to retain
it’s the hour of
sweet dreams
and bad conversation
shallow thought
and deep inhalation
sent backwards
as the sickle moon
shines his wry smile
over the shadow drawn corners
of the stopped clock
why is it HE never tires
in the wait for tomorrow
Alc Harris
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/3am-the-reapers-happy-hour/
