Another Sleepless Night

I wonder what Van Gogh thought about on nights like these. Was he restless like me, or calm with inspiration.
My world feels different tonight. Why are they calling to me? Whispers of passion.
Reality collapses my fantasy the winds blow. Winds of change, words of time and I am the author.
Dreams of accomplishment and I am the victor.
Peace will never be mine. When I should have called out to Opportunity, I turned and walked toward Shame.
Mediocrity and I walk hand-in-hand and I weep in her arms for what could have been.
What does God think about on nights like these? About war? Or love?
Or little insignificant me, writing my scattered thoughts down with haste.
I mustn’t lose a thought or a sentence to the night, its claws are sharp and it never lets go.
In this paper bottle I catch my tears before they fall and wait for precious Dawn to walk with me to tomorrow.
Maybe my world will fold in on itself and I’ll be left in the rubble, waiting for Hope to pull me out of the mess.
She is all I have to hold onto.
I wonder what Plato thought about on nights like these….?