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Sleep Infection
As Rumple in blankets,
I vegetate in unfilled torpor,
Blind enervation adrift among
Extinguished stars, among dark
Torpid galaxies where I am a stranger.
I find only dead planets, windswept and barren,
Where molecules of a distant living past
Are vaguely recalled,
And where conceptions,
Convictions all collapse.
Exhaustion is an avalanche
Making no distinction between
vacuity and repletness.
Sleep believes nothing,
Not even the animated chatter of
My dreams.
Copyright ©
Thomas Wells
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