Sleep

The colours outside fade amber to black.
The music coughs silence, loses its track.
Dead bicycle wheels wheel to a stop.
Taps gargle and drip a last slow drop.
Party curls curl to the wax polished floor.
Levers push closed the thick fire doors,
and eyelids fall heavy to blink out the world,
to say a goodbye to the party curl's curl,
to cough a goodbye to the bicycle's wheel,
to slip into darkness, pricked by the curse
of the day's kiss,
of the night's hearse.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.