InsomniacA Poem by PerditionWe are the strangest question by far it’s easy to neglect this, easy to slip away down to something quite sacred, something other than the potion in our one meaning or Each time I try it follows me the open eye, once a candle to a peacock burning bright now the compensation to the day a steady prayer at that, and one that waivers once in, from then on never out of mind, Yet there once was a sweetness about, an hour so quiet that when the melancholy seeped or stirred I’d wake the sleep to work out this madness The night would fill and form around me the groggy black glass so rancid and macabre, yet together we could paint our pain together something refined our senses and something heavier would slow the famished pictures The blood beneath our skin would rust and slow stampeding eyes became disciples to the shadows gleaming, as if into Africa or off to a brief heaven wherever we’d decide and when morning spoke we’d paint again until the pain would simply slip off and away Oh yes, the morning would come the unstoppable rise though we’d try to fight it and the more we asked the more we died it was not the apology but rather having to hide beneath the miles and miles of mindless phrases It has always been a place of death for me and the source of life a place to grow the light that glows to an end a place to slip away from the slant of my own empty rooms with so many souls now beside me it is the most infectious seed I can recall living with something that will never besiege the question or worse than the tyrant that lives inside inducing the quality to the question itself. © 2020 PerditionReviews
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11 Reviews Added on April 25, 2020 Last Updated on April 25, 2020 Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
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