Late nights, early mornings.
A few hours of oblivion, and then my breath digs deep again.  Blackish water fills the reservoir, bending like a gymnast.

Late nights, early mornings.
The final impressions; the thoughts of dawn.  They’ve been recorded: the conclusions of my days; this life on waking.  They’re filed under ‘P’ for Poems.

Late nights, early mornings.
Shocked by the speed of seconds, and the countdown is continual.  The scoreboard’s numbers are smattered with blood.  Must’ve been a foul ball.

Late nights, early mornings.
My head is thick; my eyes aren’t open.  My condition clears when the night descends and terminates with the dawn.  The candles look like burned-out puddles.

Late nights, early mornings.
The dreams stay put once fatigue is shaken.  It’s where the party is, the insurmountable wave.  It’s an energy that leaps over barriers, an intoxicant that’s flushing my skin.