Awakened with a stifled scream, gagging
on the mortal fear of drowning, slumping,
limp and listless, shattered in defeat, too
well aware the madness is returning.
Subsiding in a jellied heap, battered by the wear
of sleep, torn and tried and near to tears and
deafened by the manic sounds your ears could not
dispel exploding blazing icons in your head.
Sleep is not returning. You wouldn’t let the madman
in without a fight; if you could fight. Your eyes
are drenched and shuttered tight against the
burning night’s excess of sadness.
And then the gentle touch of dawn whose hand
invades your solitude, the hand that moves with
subtle skills, that soothes and moves through
softened curves and slowly, slowly pacifies.
© I.D. Carswell
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