The Veil

I've found no rest under the veil. Terrors spool their wretched gifts atop a haggard pillow- lying in wait. Waiting for my conscious mind to become exasperated enough to fall from the fraying rope of sanity. I go to War. Instinctually scrambling for energy. Determined not to succumb. Because sleep has lost its comfort. But, as the sound of knives sharpening ripens inside grey matter and I begin to see the crimson curtains shut- I cower, and inevitably fall. Lost to the Demons I've created, the memories I've tattooed into the place that was once a haven. Writhing and bruising knuckles against walls made of neglected hope. Visions plastered against my cage crumble and I become encapsulated by an existential anomaly that I've, on so many sleepless nights tried to quantify by starlight. I have no answer. Only sore hands, and shaking limbs. Red eyes, and sweat soaked sheets. A dizzy recollection of what I can only assume in the moment is, a sample. An angry God's warning. Hell is real. I've been there. So, I ice my hands and pluck the dreams out of my eyes, and mold the remains into a verse, only to clutch it and wonder. What does it mean? -James Kelley 2018