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.