A Thought for Every Word

Night Static

It is another night of evasive sand.
I lie here waiting for the dark to close in, and claim another victim.
To no avail.
Sleep eludes me.

I could find the blue relief
under the counter, in a box of paper and foil.
And give in to the synthetic death.

Why can I not sleep
like a child without a thought?
Have I acquiesced to the demise of patent leather surety
and dreamless nights?

It is quiet and the slivered moon
whispers nothing of comfort to my cotton filled ears.
My arm rests heavy on eyelids swollen open.
The madness begins.


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