It's two in the morning,
writing a poem.
Sure i make sense,
but not all that much.

Monotonous ticking,
counting my rhythm
'cause strange sounds of nighttime
feel odd to the touch.

As rainbow glass sparkles,
the green smells of danger
waft roughly around
sounding just like a bell

and my pen feels as heavy
as nails on a chalkboard
I cant help but listen,
but that's just as well.

'Cause sleep's as elusive
as foxes in frost storms
deftly escaping
the huntsmen and such.

It's one in the morning,
I'm now done this poem
and yes, it makes sense.
Just not all that much.