All at once, the hours of the day fudge –

thick throated ticking as the clock grows dimmer in the light

and in creeps a sleep that never fully takes hold;

 

variations of slate whispers on a shoulder blade –

turning over, shadowing the eyes with Payne’s grey,

a memory of a storm; lungs filled with water.

 

The dreams descend, whistling, hysterical, almost

a thing to touch;  glass spores

rubbing fear into the stare - the shatter drop of not knowing

 

quite where the lull of a pill ends. This vague sadness

and gnawing incompleteness makes cold

the hours of the day,

 

and in creeps a sleep that never fully takes hold

and in creeps the loss of something never fully held

and in creeps a state of  unbearable cold

 

licked white down your brow - cold, cold -

the looseness of yourself pinned

in the mist of your pearl sick eyes.