I Howl in My Sleep


I howl in my sleep.

Lucky for the moon, I don’t sleep much.

Though weariness has ravaged me,

this is the lesser of evils,

for waking is like a tide rising.


That brine is oppressive,

rushing in to fill the hollows

of my ferrel eyes,

which open to accept

all the patient pain.


It waited here for me,

watching over as I hid

among the peace of my nightmares,

ghastly fantasies, preferable only to

all that I face now.


My rising is a burnt offering,

the wretched acceptance

of this, my daily gift,

the implacable reality

this devoted tide has brought me.


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