To Sleep With Anger

as sunset melts below frisky waking
stars, I begin a chant for unfettered
dreams. Straining to remember the

feel of fantasies painted in pure mist,
I dread the ragged rough edge of each
silence filled slumber, for noise has waxed

to warm taffy, sweet and welcome in my
ears but lost behind shadows of living pain.
My woe has stretched itself into limbs,

hands laced with uneven fingernails lined
thick with filthy regret that scratch deep pits
along my hope’s tender belly, weakening it to

slowly bleed nimble tears that fall unseen.
I toss and turn, sewing moment
to minute
to hour
to moment,
sneaking scattered bits of joy birthed long

ago that secretly drifted into deep pockets
of indifference, now wadded in the corners like
tissue lint. I try not to yield to the pledge of

“never again”, my ego refusing to wear the
bold striped skin of shame or the faded tweed
patches of weakness that dance and flirt

before my salted eyes. I am the tool of
Sheherazade. Sin-drenched winds of eternal
tales held captive in remorseful flesh,

rising to its surface each night in teasing
waves then submerging beneath to barely
visible roots unreachable.

I await the sleep of nothingness
to numb me pitiless and
bed me to morning.

@2006 DRK