False sense
I've got a feeling the devil made you mine.
The sand grazes my skin,
gives me cuts in two straight lines.
Pull limbs, twist sockets to dislocate,
beaten body filled with water
to drown would be escape.
Foam falls down my crescent shape,
open eyes might wander
but closed never wake.
Tilt ground to favoured earthly taste,
grab me from the currents to watch
a body lay to waste.
Heard calls, please, save me from His grace.
The crown weighs but a feather,
in the head you find His weight.
Death finds me in dreams,
waiting for a hand to put to lay.
Lord please let me sleep.
I cannot bare another day.
Copyright © Matthew Reade | Year Posted 2023
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