Sobering a Happy Addict

I was born married to the master of subservience, fell in love with the master of somnolence. I dissolved Reality, divorced carnal calamites, and the raw ache of captivated chaos. I commanded a tactical tilling of damning emotions and made a bed among the poppies, so I could forever seduce Sleep at the edge of Oblivion. I sold my soul and barely chafed chastity for a phenomenal phantasm of passionless pleasures beyond Gates of Ivory. Wafting winds cradled creativity and I was a starving minion, a zealous zephyr, questing after the deep highs to capture luscious laughter and opium kisses from Slumber’s linen wings. My psyche reveled in these unrestrained orgies climaxing far above ashen alleys where life corroded the living. A patron of illusions, always hunting for more fruitful fascinations, avoiding natural navigations through wicked whining and the sight of probing pairs of crescent craters searching for substance in battered faiths. Deliberately oblivious to the sadistic salutes of Godforsaken souls; sleep inoculated against plagues of Pathos that dawned with prehistoric procreation. Amethyst apparitions fiercely feigning blindness replaced callous captions with textile thoughts; such beautiful deceptions, flawlessly manufactured to be reality resistant. Yet, I was sleep abandoned, blistered by drops of winged darkness, deceived by twisted twins. Euphoria arrested, phantom limbs flailed, swatting swarms of bleak sobriety but Death was already aroused, masturbating memories I thought I’d purged. Retribution for a life lived at the edge of death? Pollyanna caught loitering, rotting in sweet dreams and living in the mirrored mirage of a Glad Book illustration. My disturbed somniloquies became railroaded ramblings, paranoid confessions of a Happy Addict, torn from forgotten scenes, stripped of sunny sided semantics. Death swaddled my crippled soul mummified in the bunting guts of my patchwork playground. Each time I blink a resentful, halcyon curtain cries yearning for my cuckolded Life. This restless, sentient existence is eternally mine, dictating discharges of cruel insomnia. Pinched, folded, and squeezed in the fiddling fingers of inescapable reality.