Ambien
The muddle of sleep—
The grand entrance to Morpheus' legendary palace
In whole or half a tablet;
Easy breaths of chemicals
In pretty, light-refracting bottles.
I prepare myself for an escorted journey
To where dreams float from their origin
Like glossy bubbles through netted neurons
I am the keeper of sedatives—
An expert in manoeuvring through fallen thoughts
Don't they know I need sleep too?
I need this perceived travel through time
To kiss my lips—
To enter slowly with its glowing tongue
And seduce my mind into a comfortable numbness—
To lug it, like a limp body,
Away from the sounds of rubber through rain
Onto a restful shore.
Yes,
I do vie
For my senses to trip, drunkenly,
Over one and other
Like a vague rolling wave in cloudy space.
It is actually a religion
Or maybe I'm confusing it with religious consumption—
Swallowing rotund solidity
Like a whore swallows fluidity.
This is not ecstasy
This is prescribed tranquility, so it's OK.
Okay, and infinitely sweeter,
Because it does not put me in a hot air balloon
With a finite fire.
I don't ever need to descend;
Just open my eyes to the sun through my blinds
Society is dancing on my back
Across my stomach
Trying to expel the demon inside me.
I love these molecular robots;
They drift with a purpose and close the dock
Where insomnia frequents.
Afternoon shakes off grogginess,
The invisible lotus leaf
Stamped on my brow,
And pulls me up the conscious ladder.
I don't want to be here.
Circles of slumber—those precious pills
Are always as good as I want them to be—
As I beg them to be—
As I need them to be.
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