Late Nights

the clock reads a time
too far in the future for me to realise
the numbers blink in confirmation
dragging the tears from whats left of my eyes

i turn away, hoping that i can't see it pass
but still i can feel it blaring in silence
shadows, put under your spell
and as i read over the words you wrote
they're in a language i can't see
forming shapes where i can't tell
what is empty and what is full
so i put down the letters

and try to let the impartial hands smother me
and drag me down deep into the unbiased black
where all who live in light languish
and all who live in the dark lack

the feeling of you not being here,
it's enough, and i try to lose myself in the covers
always too hot, or too cold
a shower of burning guilt which i cant run from.

and if i were to try, the thought would pound
itself into my mind
useless, useless, useless
because only within them can i pretend
that there is hope
for a dull grey flower
which never hangs it's head in shame
but in this bed
where nothing changes hour by hour
and it seems like the seasons will not change

and this is just one of many late nights
when i lie, and i lie, and i lie, to myself
about what might--