Some nights, only the crease of your knee is warm,
and you're awake only to battle the bitter enemy of the Cold.
Some nights, sheets are thrown askew in a mad passion of thought, a fervor of arduous cognition, a disarray of sanity's comforts.
Some nights, sleepless solitude leads to sleepless lonesome, second pillows or childhood tagalongs, no longer animated, lose emotion.
Some nights grab hold of dogma and strangle its every vocal
beg for a breathless gasp of answer, of absolution,
of alibi for where it's been all my life.
Some nights, inspiration fails, and anxiety swells
like a bruise fresh from humility,
needing the icy press of pride and prowess.
But some nights are only mornings,
that break early after a rest in the den of dreams.