Muse |
Muse |
What is night but a shawl over my head, That which tells me to sleep yet I wake instead. My eyes drawn shut like a shop's guard, Then, corrugated, rusty relaxation turns hard. Time has shrunk, for these are the small hours When thoughts spread high shadows stretched as towers. Whirring on, the windmills of my kind Blow the drag of depth from my mind. Still insisting I am closed for business As I expand and retract and turn to resist this Puuuuull, puuuuush, bump From the shoulder of my slump. Retiring beyond the frayed fragments of futile ends Of a dream that smacks of make pretend, Red hot pokers jab at my surprise to find The lock has been sheered clean off, my Business exposed and a thirst for light Stirs in my heavy head a thirst for a fight. But I lose. This time. My mind stirs further still. The words come rhyming and there they mill Fashioning a thinker thread that runs on and down the bed Flowing from the strands that stand and fall from my head. Keeling like a wheeling ghost I rise The shroud lays thinly as mist across a field that lies Under the guise of a clock watching the dot Of a billion stars that blink twice and blot The spot where my eyes roll Round like moon stones that scratch away the sleep toll. Wrapt in stripes that coat my skin, I search for a crystal of whisky to swirl in. The Scottish rain downs my throat to choke my malty tears, Reflecting well on the wasteland of my "golden years". Horrors come to you at night, they say, But I've lost those to a numb drum that caves My resistance to return to rest, My being enveloped in a slumber nest. Broken twigs and stones, and leaves The verses tumbling out, barring the way as eaves Stay stubbornly to keep up appearances of a humble home, I dig a hole for myself in amongst a cotton loam. Removed as a nail from the wood in which it once resided, Comforted and now cursed and reminded That you can't take anything for granted, Even if you once did. Even when lying with the sticky end up, it's pointless. Like the wolf to the moon, insomnia I cuss thus! Originally written October 2020, age 24
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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