“My Tired”
My tired, stretches outward, and underwhelms.
Staunch narcoleptics,snoring pots and pans to beat the band.
The young hold a steady confidence that there will be adequate time to catch up on sleep.
There won’t be.
Just a dog-eared ledger of lost opportunities.
On incremental journeys, night owls and egg timers make strained bedfellows.
Clocks bully furrowed brows, and make cowards of true hearts.
Lost alone, waiting to retire.
A methodical metronome,
the cadence of an old age home.
Wrathful weeping willow kin,
Rabid Pussy willow skin.
Bedouin sheiks pouring pitchers,
into desert sands.
And the Dried up Oasis,
Becomes nowhere to turn.
but, a boomerang vision.
Viewing night activities,
from a rusted fire escape.
Floating heavy across the Van Gogh Starry Night.
Still awake?
No dreamscape.
Escape.
My tired, folds into me, and overwhelms.
Sweaty yellow pillowcases contain the weight of the world.
Quiet, tender moments, forgotten and remembered.
Hampered by doubt.
Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.
Lost, recovered? Abruptly.
When will it end?
I lost track.
The final act,
of a fledgling Faust insomniac.
There are others, to be sure.
Out in the land of perpetual anguish.
Counting sheep, warming milk,
self-abusing desperation,
hoping the post O glow will shuffle them off to slumber nation.
Chemical thrills, trails unmarked.
Arms taken up.
Dream-weaving steampunk.
Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.
My tired, digging deep,
pointless, past reprieve.
Embrace the ending sleep.
Counting backwards from the deep,
eternal sleepless sleep.
Deep oscillating breath,
skirts the breadth of death.
Black cavern, at light speed.
Steady ready stillness.
Pitch-black, stillness.
Stilted, stilling stillness.
