telford (coming down in)

city lights burn like miles of stars, my kaleidoscope eyes catch
headlights weaving like patterns on a loom
between the silhouettes of trees and periodically
the haunting whistle of passing trains punctures the stagnance of thoughtful centuries
lying thick in the black night--
echoing off the appalachians and waking the dead
so ironically resting in peace(my mind in pieces) in the backyard--
and the octopus of my insane wanderings squirts ink
black as opium
into my line of sight
my head hit the pillow like a baseball bat against a brick wall
irises burning, eyelids (heavy as though eyelashes lay tipped with jewels) colliding together, two cars, one wreck
and the green numbers mocking me from the microwave
counted down the last decades of my twenty hours