Tonight, I am afraid to sleep;
for fear I will sink too deep.
Past the mangled red trees,
where reason can’t reach, and
into that place where the lost ones weep.
Mourn out loud of
wisdom stolen in foolish folly or worse;
a second of disconnected dispassion.
The carcass that still lives. The dead mass that breathes out and in
like the belly of a rabid dog, mindless but very much alive.
Home to tortured.
Unwelcome, cast out, lucked out.
And me. I crawl through the familiar sticky walls
that have been the backdrop to my dreams for over 30 years.
Tonight, I am afraid to sleep.
They gather, the daemons –
my soul to keep.
The ravens have sung a song of fire and sorrow,
for the crows to clean up like good birds tomorrow.
So I gather my coins,
my knives and my words;
my wards, and my blackness and all the dead birds, and
the air smells of war.
I will close my eyes,
and smile as I fall.
I have been there before, and met them all.
I am afraid. But my bed is made,
If I die in my sleep,
I will have waged war, shed blood,
and have remained perfectly still;
-that being my will.
What good is my soul to them now?