Written at 3am. I have to leave for work in three hours.
Nothing good happens after 2am
except the fevered metaphor of insomniacs
longing for an empty ocean
of darkness behind heavy lids, just out of reach.
Sleeplessness attacks.
Mesmerized by the motion
of the clock measuring
loss by the second.
Treasuring memories of dreams
from nights prior.
To that retired state aspire,
they beckoned.
It’s not the first time this whale has beached,
this bloated consciousness, washed up on the sand
gasping for air,
painfully aware,
that it can’t push its way back into the water
because it doesn’t have hands.
Sleep, she eludes you,
no matter the hours you have sought her,
and Dawn dances just over purple-black horizon
lifting night’s skirt like some strip club tease.
A vicious circle that cannot be undone,
killing me by degrees.
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