shwin.


Insomnia

The world is underwater today, just as it has these past few weeks of dreams deprived of peace.
It teases me in its own way; makes me tired, walks away.
Droops my eyes and makes me sway.
It's hard to say when night will let my waking thoughts delay. When all that's left is me and sheets, and other sleep related things, alone to my self do keep the haunting;s of the meek.
Hidden beneath the goose feathers, "deprive yourself again."
Blind my eyes, darkness' lamp! My shirt by now is damp.
Blinking slow, the hardest part of night, towards which I quickly go, is dream's bi-daily second blow to eliminate my conscious glow.
I feel my tensing body loose, and sooner would I don a noose than dream another night away in external mumbling;s muse.
Internal terror, physical torture, a choice I cannot choose.
As the bearer claims it's more sure; my body I abuse.
Sleep seems fairer bearing cure; now the bed I use.
Hours spent in tossing seas, whispering winds, and howling me's, before it calms: the pretty sea.
Soaked to the bone, and no matter what I've seen, I'm glad I'm back to me. Another month of glazing time will pass before a sleep relapse.
I'll follow close the waking maps that will lead me away from dreaming's traps. Awake I think and plan, of course.
I contemplate the distant shores of silent boating's splitting doors between one side of living and one side of strictly lore; A side I'm not entirely sure would be an effective cure.
So here I dwell, a vacant shell, of crumbling hopes, of phobic robes; and all that makes the weeks feel numb is hoping freedom soon will come.



Poetry by Phill
Read 582 times
Written on 2010-02-27 at 03:56

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