it is nighttime.

not quiet,
not low on light,
not even tired,
nor sleeping tight.

it is nighttime.

i am thinking,
"why not sleep now",
bothered by this day of clutter.
but despite good days,
full of flutter,
i feel hunger,
a thirst for more,
more thoughts,
more words,
and yet i bore;
for anything i can conceive to do
is done.

and so i lie,
to you and to myself;
for in truth,
the end
of words,
of thoughts,
is never.

but the thoughts end soon,
for life is not forever,
but come doom,
all lies,
all truths,
all words,
are equally:
worthless.