Rats in the Attic.

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.

5 thoughts on “Rats in the Attic.”

  1. 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.

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