Zimovane
Sleep does not easily come to the wracked,
Nor does it obviously fall on the damned,
It does not as a snowfall descend,
Or as a blanket lay over the land.
Windows of eyes gape resistant and wide,
Churnings of cells spark with zest,
Palettes of thought-waves add colourful wake
To a canvas of endless unrest.
The fugue in the tablet expanding
Warm tendrils snake dreamless and dark,
Consciousness clamped in the velveteen vice
Of the jaws of a hypnotic shark.
Sleep, when it comes, is empty and dry,
And as false as a cheap hooker’s kiss,
A cotton wool coverlet drowning the truth,
For a mind in a cardboard abyss.
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