And so returns the night..

A slight and convincing novice, lie I at night,
With words so weak and a mind so active,
I give away little by sight.
And further my days, retreating inwardly,
Downward it feels, when it is only inside.
Little leaves this mouth that is truly felt,
And unhappiness is masked in irritance and terrible verse.
There should be marvellous rhyme,
There ought be fine and passionate spelling,
And yet leaks from I,
A simple salt solution of which my body is bitter and wrung.
And should we visit passion again,
Should I have a true calling,
Come ever, it’s voice, revealing it’s love for me,
Living in my breath and singing in my voice.
But no such passion has infected me,
No talent embedded in this flesh.
I am the novice that dulls the moment,
I am the weak voice at the end of a dark hall.
I am the expendable, the necessary character to move on to the next scene,
I have become little more a legend than a baby continuing to swim.
Such hope did old voices have in me,
Once I was so missed.
And now I flick at the cobwebs here, in my own dismal abyss.
As I say, however, it is not to be found around I,
But deep inside; it aches to be cleaned,
Are my fears engraved in here?
Do vile shades linger in wait?
I am placeless, and I am label-less,
I look like nothing in particular, and have about as much to contribute.
A pallor like any other,
And eyes that are eyes as they are.
Give in to sleep tonight, the unloved,
Lying by the one.
And attempt calm tonight, unloved,
Become the pain and diminish it.
I grow heavy in body, and mentally I strive to the melancholy still,
Where nothing moves on nor becomes tired nor changes,
I may be always this way.
But should it ruin it all, should it just,
That your irritated nature should dwell beside me,
And finally the wall has begun,
How hard I try still to warn.
You hear me so little through sleeping eyelids,
My nightly begging becomes prayer in slumber.
How beautiful you appear by the light of sleep,
And in this, this silence destroys me.