upon the night of the longest hour

i had a dream upon the night of the longest hour.
its display was livid and color faded,
like that of a 1940s mystery.
the moon had lost its defaulted silver shade
and had been substituted by a pale, dull white.
bats made their evening chirps, as the sparrows of night
fluttered about the buildings and the avenues.
street lights dotted the roads
burning in ostentatious white tones, signaling loneliness.
i felt my senses become blunt and unsharpened,
like a kiss from a mannequin.
the dismal boulevards contrived open mouths
which swallowed my attention with dire eloquence.
the sky (which was the least captivating)
was littered with white specks and was
(what looked like) shaded by charcoal.
not one midnight adventurist journeyed in my proximity,
but instead the night rendered me forlorn.
the silence became haunting, then aching;
i cried out, "who can manage this desolate quiet?!"
i hear no responsive articulation,
only the nighttime sparrows made noise.
i pulled at my hair and gritted my teeth,
but i knew, somehow, that this was where i wanted to be.