Turn and turn again, 
Spiral down deep,
Beneath the earth's own musty sheet.
Plough the frigid soil in vain,
For space to plant the root of sleep.

And twist more.
Your night mind,
A burning bulb of white light, here
When the nightmare in Nazi boots
Arrives accompanied by fear

That calmly rotates
Its captured corpse,
A hydra with mocking tongues to taste
The meat of your mugged thoughts.
Leaves you in pin-drop blackness, awake.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

◄ The Wait

Love, Adverbially ►


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