There will be time to sleep but it is not this hour here,
the one we are setting in, this hour that wraps around our backs,
enclosing us in its shelter like the walls
of the great grandfathers' drawing room,
our fervent philosophies echoing upon one another,
bouncing and colliding,
building in magnificence to a cacophony of intendment.
Not this hour here, that we are awake in,
this hour that surrounds us like a soundproof bubble,
within it our laughter growing louder and louder with each tick of the clock's long hand,
rising up in a tangled riot of shrieks and giggles,
weaving together like silken threads,
to float back down as song.
The lamps glow golden here, now.
Our words have no restrictions, our yarns we can spin
for as long as the strands hold together,
as long as the fibers remain unbroken;
our tales will turn and turn
until our waggling tongues grow weary;
our glasses will remain full; the Golden is timeless.
We will remain here, untouchable, invincible,
unsinkable, until our reverie breaks
and we begin to forget again.
But not this hour, the one that we are alive in.
It is not yet time for sleep.

M. Black

He is here~