The Treachery of Half-Sleep

My eyes
Remained razor sharp
Despite the fog
The treachery of half-sleep

Among roaming shadows
I scoured with vigilance
Aware, of the restless world
My limbs fully, prepared for flight

My pulse climbed
At predawn’s haunting loom
Festering
Stout with memory
Swarmed by forgotten ghosts

They yearn
Mournfully
To dwell
In the arms of my present

Yet these eyes shall not dull
They cannot waver
Nor recede
Into a nightmare’s
Sweltering furnace

My Niche of Yearning

 
On and on I writhe
Without a moment of rest
Stirring
With a hearth of longing
Scattering
The embers of distress

When am I to cave
To commune
With the rising dust?

Like the shards of old
Toppled over
By the swift and tireless present

Far off reveries
Have cursed me to rot
In this niche of yearning
In these trenches of regret

By the hour they cry
Faltering shrill
Scattering the kind earth
Into flaming shards of death

The howling departs
And I’ve long eroded
Into a withering shadow
Torn away from my former self

A Shrine to Former Years

 
It was merely a falling flicker
The dying glimmer
I’ll carry each day

Striving to be reclaimed
By the endless pastures of old
Yields only present anguish
Unwavering miles of regret

The mind must sculpt
Its shrine to former years
To spin the threads of remorse
In each grueling instant
Of misty-eyed reeling

I have found my home
In the care of memory
To slave away hopelessly
And loop for all of my years