Rik George writes

Night Music

It’s three in the morning; I’m alone in my bed, 
wakened from dreams I refuse to remember. 
The sweat of my fear soaks my sheets. 
I turn the radio on for distraction. 
Steel guitars cry the blues, laments 
dry as grief, and hot as hate. 
They waken black things deep in me. 
Something struggles to live in the hollows 
between midnight and dawn, fights 
to birth itself inside me and crawl 
into the day to blacken it. 
I thrust the monstrous fetus back, 
change the station in mid-chord,
and wait for day with piano jazz.
The unfinished Song -- Bev Byerley