Feeling the silence of the night,
trapped within the expanding cosmos
of my own subconscious.
Pondering such contemplations
which normally would never come forth,
while the hours of the night slowly pass.
Everything seems so faint,
my flesh weak and exhausted
and yet sleep doesn't come.
My eyes gazing at this blank page,
knowing there is something
yearning to come out.
So I write these words,
unsure of what shall come next.
Waiting for it to be finished,
but it never seems to end.
My muse taking up such late hours,
keeping me from slumber,
as I wait to hear what she will speak.
Her voice soft and distant like a cruel joke,
while I start to question
my very existence.
Why must I be so consumed
by everything around me,
especially at this late hour?
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