Wednesday, October 25, 2017

The Insomniac

The dark grips
And prizes open
Flickering eyelids
To stare

Dreams recede
Slowly, the
Aftertaste of
Memory, though
Uncertain and unsure
Realities hallucination

Silence shattered
The monotonous
Hooting of a
Random owl
Like the whining
Of a Grindr hook up

They say to
Count breaths
Monotony to
Dull the mind
To slip, once more
To sleep

It never works
I need the scent
Of the memory
Of your body,
Your breath
Your lips


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