Slow, The Flow Of Time's Waning Hands On nights that I can not slow walk through dreams that may, my sad soul heal With such interruption heart balks at the sorrows I come to feel. Waning midnight hours race on past night shadows then appear to prowl bed writhing, I pray it not last useless, as nightmare monsters howl! Slow, the flow of time's waning hands their razor claws slashing in deep Over and over, one last stand as Hope promises blessed sleep. In my sleep I try to fast talk. From dead body outlined in chalk. Robert J. Lindley, 3-16-2019 Sonnet, ( As the dark hours slowly march )
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