The Night Towards Sunday

sleepless, by the still of the night
by the voices in my mind, amplified
they seem to talk in clarity
now that what noises, oh not me,
they lay abed where no one cares.

early birds, i hear their chirrups
who will feed me, said them
to this impostor of impending dawn.
i fumble in thoughts of what morning may bring

the night long gone
yet dawn refrains,
a conspiracy with the timer's old hands
half in jest, for those voices
and these words I cannot consummate

silence now.

the early birds,
where have they gone to, did they hit snooze?
and for whom did i write that haiku?
the night is dying, killed by my thoughts.
let me sleep now, before I too rob the new day's dawn.