Each night I find
To keep my
Mind
From scrambling
Fearfully
Into
Another dark and deepening
Oubliette
Of my own making,
I must
Enact strategies
Where
Distractedly
I listen
To the gentle hum
And flickering
Of the
Static glare across the room.
It fools me
Into thinking
I’m not alone.
But in such stuttering shadows
Unwanted mutterings
Are there.
Always.
Breathing against my bare skin
And keeping me
From clinging
Onto the comfort
Of elusive sleep.
This gentle torture
Of my mind
Is like a drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Forcing me
Inevitably
To slip against the fearful edge
Of the oubliette
Of my own making.
I cannot grip
In hope of clawing
Out.
But instead must listen
To the constant pecking echoes
That keep me rolling
Feverish.
Or sighing like a
Sour wind.
Until the wide blade
Of dawn
Cuts through the dark
And I can,
Exhausted,
Find my way back home.
