Guy Wilkes


The Enemy


A terror wrought for years in waxing woe
Departing from the safety of the day
A hooded host in black and silver robes
Entreating to the peace it hides away
Upon the dreaded dusk he reappears
His constance never gives a moment’s rest
He arms himself with games to stoke your fears
And when he plays, you’re always second best
Alas! He knows you must in time give in
For life demands you see his battlefield
And though you hold the hope to someday win
In his control you will and always yield
And every night it plays out just the same
Arrive against your will and leave in shame

Submitted: Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 29, 2014
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Topic of this poem: sleep


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