Five turns, the clock--
it burns my eyelids
shut--I want it shot!
this phantom that reeks of rot.
Darkness in glimpses;
fleeting, this silence;
emptying my tongue
of appetite for words.
Hues fade, while world
I wade--through eyes
and flesh bruised and abused--
I smile and reflect,
"It's all been swimmingly,
so far."
Disembodied voices
in a plastic box;
the notes blast through my eardrums,
naked noise--a fatal choice--
but a conundrum inescapable,
as I am as much incapable
of elusive dream.
Morning, sweet Morning,
I hope you never come for me.
Author notes
For all the people who work the terrible dead hours of the graveyard shift. May we rediscover peace with the sun we have all but alienated. Eventually...in time...I hope...
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