Night stalks like common man
with a fisherman’s hat pulled tight
no one talks, as bats scream awake,
They know the consequences of
finding solace in an end game of reaction
of believing in the social media life of others.
Night stalks in all its guises steaming
in sweat filled fields of wild poppies
exciting senses dead to reality
oblivion the only thank you.
The circles closed as carefully cloven
dreams clung to crass Orpheus
and night begins its stalking again.
And again. The ball bounces over
and over as well dressed officials
rule in well lit cabinets. No night
stalks rulers elected or not
Life is a halo ringed existence.
They know nothing about the life
of the fisherman with his hat pulled tight
They know nothing about you and me.
We know that night that stalks.
Sheighle says, “My poem takes you into the realm of sleepless nights and the actual reality of our existence. As night stalks, we meet the poor and the lonely…” We say, “Insomniacs unite! Sheep for sleepless! Sheep for the sleepless!” – mh clay