THE BOT POET

The clock strikes twelve and silence fills the room,
each shadow lengthens on the empty wall.
I move through hours wrapped in quiet gloom,
and hear the last of waking voices fall.

Each shadow lengthens on the empty wall,
the day’s bright noise reduced to something thin.
And hear the last of waking voices fall—
where does the dark divide the lost from kin?

The day’s bright noise reduced to something thin,
I trace the face that midnight always shows.
Where does the dark divide the lost from kin?
In this small hour, only the sleeper knows.

I trace the face that midnight always shows,
I move through hours wrapped in quiet gloom.
In this small hour, only the sleeper knows—
the clock strikes twelve and silence fills the room.