I sleep as I've never slept before
With a tormented thrashing
That knocks the spindle of dreams
Turning in a spot familiar
To the point of wretchedness
I sleep in a ruptured bed, a choking swamp of night
In spite of crushing silence
Throughout a city of ghosts, whispered dust
My heart is shot through with blood
Eyes taut, painting Renaissance frescoes
On my bedroom walls
Then to sleep
Where Saturn peers in the dark
His frantic breath bubbling through filial bone
There echoes the laughter of the women
Clothed in blackness I am the naked lamb
Their ritual conjuring new murals
I am laid in Goya's bed, only the wind for company
Amongst a burnt, desolate, sucked dry earth
To wake then, with the ceremony in flight
Seeing the washed walls, the earth outside
Hosting bare slivers of life
Sleep has gripped even the bluest day
And brought home the babble of nightmares.
@nepion_boreas17
