3am <br />the Reapers happy hour <br />and the sturdy finger of fear <br />pokes in my <br />sleep deprived eye <br />once again <br />snatching the breath <br />I desperately <br /> scramble to retain <br />it’s the hour of <br />sweet dreams <br />and bad conversation <br />shallow thought <br />and deep inhalation <br />sent backwards <br />as the sickle moon <br />shines his wry smile <br />over the shadow drawn corners <br />of the stopped clock <br /> <br />why is it HE never tires <br />in the wait for tomorrow<br /><br />Alc Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/3am-the-reapers-happy-hour/
