Ire in the Sleeping Hall

In a daze, time leaves me,

always.

it's midnight,

I am yet to shed my skin,

and sprawl without shame,

without the ironies

that define​ me,​​ 

and ​the hour's light blue light!

12, the reminder

comes with youthful vigour,

shake me up;

but I waste another hour

in jest,

mocking myself,

killing the ​words of 

​birds ​who ​tweet​​​​ for salary.

Dazed, bruised, 

yet in unpopular consciousness,

I remain,

till sleep wakes me up,

splashes ire on my face,

​cleanses my ​mouth 

off bad poetry,

and tucks me into bed.

​-- Leslie