Sounds like thunder, smells of heat
heavy with bass, a rumbling baritone.
Skies bearing little, often.
Static apprehension greets the probing hand.
Fingertips parting the density
bought, part from boredom,
part paid with lack of sleep.
Mauve hangs below the black.
A deep internal oration
Sonorous from the dark.
Then my night rain begins.
I catch the raindrops for a moment.
Taste the heat and smoke of cities.
Then return to my ceiling,
the mattress at my back,
and the freedom falling
Sooner still, I’m wakeful
Silence in sleep and listless dreaming Lie,
Beyond the soundless screaming of the deep.
Rage upon the night, in which we writhe and
Feast upon the starlight paper-thin.
I’m little in the pitch thick black of sleep,
To stop the thoughts, to hold them back means less.
I curl with pressure, underneath the sheets,
And keep the fierce pulsation in my breast.
My mausoleum creaks, despite its age
this oblong tomb is empty as the cross.
My masters, sires of sleep mourn at the loss
My soul lies in remembrance of the day.
As hours pass, the moonlight breathes its song.
To drown the amber streetlight drone, in vain
I make peace to the silent space beside me,
and vent my heart's frustration at the pain.
The safe in which I lie, impenetrable.
The stone that guards my wake too thick to move.
The Sandman tired of luck must fade away.
In fear of coming dawn,
of coming day.