Turn Up

Twelve iron monkeys,
Dance at midnight.
Only my voice and yours,
Fears silence,
But cannot fight.
And so they dance.

I cannot feel,
I cannot think,
While on mindless automatic,
And yet our thoughts are shown and shorn,
By effervescent static.

Still onwards do these apes decry,
That sunlight ne'er shall surface.
While bare feet tap a message,
On the coolness of the dew.

Absence makes for
Awkward words,
So cautiously rejected.
Somehow I've become immune,
To joyousness infected.

T'were an angel or a demon,
Come between us in the end,
To assuage our conversation,
Twixt an enemy and friend.
Between a lover and a poet,
For the start and for the end.

For you,
My lovely friend.