[18] MIDNIGHT DOSAGES
1.
I stopped thinking when
they allowed me to stop caring.
The world spins,
forward and reverse,
as if that could hide
the difference to many.
Maybe it could.
But I see the slight
misalignment even with
my eyes blindfolded shut.
2.
On these nights,
my bed becomes my coffin and
my sheets the only piece that could
swallow the weeping away.
The air swirls,
the moon stares,
open not wide.
3.
Sleep does not come to
me in numbers and arrows.
But it's the only escape
I can have even for a while.
4. Good
5. night.
6. Bad.
7. night.
8. Sleep.
9. Tight.
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PoetryAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
