Each Night

Image: Florian Pircher @ Pixabay

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.

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