Poetry Project 2017: Day 118

This place, this time, 
when most people sleep,
is the time that they come.
Those little fuels and fires,
that torment and make 
restless souls stir.
In daylight they hide,
pushed down by
sun and mundane.
In the quiet dark,
they creep in and
whisper in minds.
Whisper
Whisper
Whisper
They whisper in your mind.
Melancholia?
Ennui?
Depression?
Labels matter not.
This place, this moment,
feels the same,
yet changing, 
rolling forward.
Those little tugs and torments,
pulling and pushing,
jostling your mind.
Here now, then there
This person, that person
A word, a phrase, an exclamation
It matters not,
they'll all find you.
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