It begins in solitude at 3 am

When drum rolled thoughts
beat against
moments grown long,

and moments forgetting

When the zzquil kicks in

and shreds away on the

mattress where you lay,

like clowns without sound-

Clowns without music.

Those moments not mentioned
when you finally get it

and there’s nobody there

in the kitchen to witness--
It is in solitude at 3 am,
It is,
   and the motherfucker 
always wins.