4am. (Or: Why I don't often write poetry)

Fake light illuminates a metal roof,
Windows are mirrors now.
The sounds are peaceful,
And the silence is full of noise.

Creatures chase after their shadows,
Trees become ghosts.
The darkness seems clearer,
Than the dismal light of day.

Bottles tell tales of the night's depravity
As they roll under my feet.
Now there is no-one,
Only their debris left behind.

Fake light shows the fake world.
The street is orange,
Even the clouds have changed.
The night should not be like this.