4 a.m., and sleep seemed a thing impossible.
The mottled face of the ceiling was like that of the moon,
pale and barren, and offering nothing.
His eyes moved to the orange strip of street-lamp glow
cast across the bedroom wall by the window.
He watched the steam from the sewer drains
wash and dance
like ripples across a mud puddle,
before once again glancing at the hands
of the Big Ben clock at his bed-side.
Sleep wasn’t coming.
It had made its appearance brief, and seemingly
had moved on, leaving him to yearn.
Now, he did yearn,
but attempted to stop, for he knew
such an act would yield nothing.