Hush, Crooned the Night

Here I sit on this night so still, not a rustle in the leaves nor a stirring in the grass. No whispers intrude; naught but mine. Ill news after days spent ill, unwelcome foreword to grief inexorable more like than not. No answers come; naught but malign. A thirst I can never quell, a gulp seeming to smash the silence whilst whiskey spars with the fear. No solace is on tap; naught but fake. A call from inside breaks the spell, an urging for sleep's cocoon next to a lover's warmth. No closure can I find; naught but striding on.