Poetry Files. Standing on the Threshold of Madness. Benjamin Blake. Porchlight




Standing on the Threshold of Madness
Benjamin Blake
Sometimes the night stands dead still
Those rare silent moments
That are only broken by the hoot of an owl
Or the rustling of some other nocturnal creature

The kind of night where the smoke from your cigarette
Carries in the chill of the air
Drifting no which way in particular
Seclusion makes the utmost sense at times like these
And sleep will come easy
When it is time