it’s 12 at night I am still awake
listening to the beautiful sounds of my youth
that I carry around with me every day
through the soft ringing in my ears.

documents of the concerts, songs and games I played
sweet like old scarred skin remembering silly mistakes
of fooling around.

the mind is the only thing that plays those tricks on me.
the clock does not tick but it’s already 12.30
and my song of silence keeps me awake
one second at a time, not being the lullaby I desperately need.

time passes by while I sit and watch
the streaming of the flow through digital screens.
oh how we all love precious toys, as we men are like wee boys
wasting hours in front of digital worlds, dreaming other people’s dreams.

I see michael dying, read about dead dirty dancers, or hear songs about revolts chanted by little birds,
and I don’t need newspaper or TV to know what’s happening today.

but do I know what’s happening outside that little 30 inch frame,
shining through the dark into my bleeched face?