The atrocity of sleep
–
its rasped, wooden cogs
turn greased and gruesome
atop me.
Leaving me slick,
sick in its absence.
A wonted tryst
with a vanished shadow
,
pending repetition –
a witch’s vigil
is at my windowsills.
Want is the moon,
the forecast – 23 floors down.
My faculties are static,
while rats scratch out torrid
letters – romantic,
in the attic.
And thank you, Peter. I appreciate your support. As you’ve seen, I have still been posting work to facebook and other avenues. Even knocking out some essays and short stories! Nice to be here though x
This is so re-edited, that it is pretty much a different poem wherein only two or three lines from the original remain. A very wise man once said to me “Editing is the real writing”. This is something that rings true to me.
I don’t think I’d be wrong to say that those of us from the old ning.com site all remember your first postings there, Sommer, with which you stepped up loud and knocked!
A regular night with insomnia haha. It’s a little hard for me to post here again, but I am managing it piece-by-piece, so your kind feedback is sincerely very much appreciated.
Classy. Love this bit: rasped, wooden cogs
turn greased and gruesome –
Sounds like a night to remember – or forget.