2 a.m. Phone Call

Today we’ll call it death
death of the night.
The television still rings in her eyes
the neon lights deafen her still.
Past the point of no return.

She smells in the air
the hope, lingering.
She’ll sleep in an hour more.
She’ll kill another minute.

Knives of iron-clad will,
and soft brushes of the wind
to finish off the top coat.

It’s done. Or so she thinks.

Maybe there’s another battle
somewhere on the horizon.
Maybe she’ll chance another duel
and get her way with life.

With a caress and a touch
a soft balmy kiss comes crashing down
and the evidence swept
under the menacing moon.

Maybe she’ll chance upon rebellion
of the coffee and rust underneath her skin.
The silence is within
but the television is still on mute
and she says she didn’t try.

It happened. And today
she’ll turn mass murderer
serially killing
all her nights with a whiff
of a dice-rolled fate
and the shadows of the light.

It’s the dead of night
and the night is dead.