They Come, They Play Poem by Christopher Withers

the unseen silence takes on form,
in this hazy twilight space,
logic, reason dissipates
when caught between the night and day.
weary time winds down, fragments:
clock hands slow upon their tracks,
insomnia is pulled and stretched,
as the fabric of the moment sags.
flights of fancy, unknown sounds
cast shadows from the dreamers eye,
ghostly forms, ephemeral shapes
slither from the ethers cusp.
hidden from the light of day,
the counterfeit takes form, holds sway
and what would once be overlooked,
scuttles from it's childhood place,
and fears relieved by light of day,
use our minds, they come, they play.