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Awakened before dawn, I gasped for breath
A sound of dark foreboding breaks the still
Outside, the unrelenting, "song of death"
That soul collector, singing, " whip-poor-will"
Before twilight, he lands high in the pine
His feathers tan and brown, his neck plumes white
In repetitious cries that chill the spine
He calls lost souls to him before first light
And though no souls may come, he sings his song
So maddening, it makes the weary weep
His tax upon the living until dawn
The only payment he accepts is sleep
I hope the morning finds him a new tree
Someplace, far, far away, from sleeping me
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Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2017