A very old poem this one, probably written around 2000.

My days are bordered with a fitful melancholy
That sulks and skulks like shadows briefly banished by the sun
How I resent the shackles of my own bed, the limits of my endurance
How I loathe the winding down of the day; I will not die with dignity
But go shrieking, like a child to the little death
That signs the ending of the day, seals it into the past, incomplete, imperfect
And unfinishable.

Vanity, all these vanities I have kept in my bedroom
To fly about the beams. I am mortal walking dust;
I am the shape of a poem in the sand between the last wave and the next
That is all: who am I to glower at the going down of the sun?
Can I prevent the moments from passing with my hissing fury?
Can I paste the leaves back on the trees? But truly: it is only this;
The child who weeps because the party always ends.
The lights go out, the flowers fade, the friends drift
And at the end of every day I go alone to bed,
To lie silent in the dark and breathe my futile dreams
Into the empty night.

Like death; this is a truth I can rely on.
This is the basest foundation of my life, the skeleton
Upon which the flesh of days hangs, and by which my hopes are framed.

Alas, alas, all is futility; there is nothing new under the sun.
Alas, alas, to bed we go, like dying clockwork, like flowers folding down,
We are the ending of a song, whose last notes
Haunts the long drive home,
That makes you sit within the car and refuse the simple truth
Of home, and darkness, and stars that go on singing, long after you are gone.
To bed, to bed.