08 April 2023
Thoughts are not velvet, insomnia is hell,
colours corrupt into shadows of pigment
placed on a canvas of sharp bristle and hair.
Insomnia is a riot of impossibility;
an unhinged doorway into unpredictable spaces
… broken places.
Hope inverted leads to visions of teeth tearing;
savage snapping and the fall of bridges leading to light.
Sleepless eyes glimpse ghosts of regret,
blinking back the sour beasts of inevitable judgement
seeking atonement for the past.
Forever awake, there is no dawn reprieve,
no heaven nor haven, no sunlit revival of
…a warm waking.
The salt of reality promises purification
but brings only the sting of things unresolved;
a river that never greets the sea, a dry lake waiting for rain.
Time forgets the need to move and lingers
…in between moments,
a sulky grudge that sits alone in the dark corner.
Insomnia becomes a vicious assassin of meaning and dreams,
silently killing small creatures of hope with brittle-fist aggression,
hell-bent on repression of passion and soul,
fragmenting the kernel leaving only a hole
where the whole used to be.
…Ohh, the useless utility of language
to describe this place of sleepless isolation,
depraved or deprived, hard to say,
but vowels become vacuum, and consonants
become constant drones of deranged tones
stretching the frequency of life to breaking point.
Elegance of language is shredded and pulped,
punctuation meaningless in a sentence that has no conclusion,
…no resolution.
This string has no end,
it is a sleepless snake biting its own tail in a
languid loop of infinite repetition.
So hey the morning announces
the arrival of new expectation
with the dull thud of a mallet; the spiteful sizzle
of spitting fat in a pan; the split and fracture
of hot eggs and toast.
The silence of morning. The sound of swept fragments.