Futures bloom in 
moonlit solitude,
only to wilt 
when minds nod off.
And while the mind 
lays a sleep,

like a hen an egg,
the same old sun,
a mangy wolf,
mounts a furtive siege
to loot the dark 
cool womb of life,
the egg, the skull:
a home of hope

splintered by affairs
with time and chance,
an abode of guilt, 
with blackout shades,
that incubates
the stillborn dreams 
of sensual night
while outside 

the sun hatches 
tomorrow,
nocturnal death,
or night's passage,
proclaiming death
to secret selves.

Subscribe for poems and interesting reads.