I live for the quiet hours,
When all is done and no more is said,
Beyond the reach of daylight’s powers,
And all the world is in my bed,

And none of morning’s cackling clowns,
Can grate their will against my brain,
When silence blankets toy box towns,
And one blanches at the pain,

For no one cares even if you show it,
They cannot see beyond their beds,
And in the silence the midnight poets,
Toss and rear their pretty heads,

When universes live in walls,
And tidal waves in old ink wells,
Friends from dreamlands roam the halls,
Freed from my own tenth ring of hell,

Where darkness lets me rest my eyes,
To ease the beating of my head,
And no one hears the fool who cries,
Wishing dearly she was dead,

As death is not for Christmas lists,
And cracks are ugly eyesore blights,
And words will hurt like iron fists,
Devoid of patience for freeze or flight,

So I’ll live in the quiet hours,
The time that all the ghoulies live,
But from these monsters I shan’t cower,
They can’t be worse than those within,

To sleep perchance to dream he said,
For me it’s enough to rest my head.