Dandylion
11-29-2003, 02:22 PM
She dreams of sleeping,
long uninterupted hours
in a sweet baby like bliss.
Free from the struggle, the chaos
that engulfs her in her houserobe.
Slippers cover her feet,
cozy, fluffy, like dead rabbits
that whisper down the hall.
The counter top is cold, like her touch,
her breath as winter sets in.
The morning coffee, her thrill pill
to keep her sane day to day
swallowed in large gasping gulps.
Red, saggy, basket hound eyes
sweep across the room.
A mess.
The world makes little sense,
the daily paper confirms her suspicions.
The blackness of her insomnia
ripples through her,
a subtle poison setting in.
Coffee rings on the oak table,
once new and clean,
mark her days like a roman calender.
Tangled hair, knotted like an apple tree,
crowns her like the sleepless Queen she has become.
Smoke billows from her nostrils,
a fiery demon of nicotine
calms the weary blood.
Another day, the motion of the sun
has lost all meaning.
The cup becomes a heavy chalise
in her weakened hand,
spilling black nectar on her knees.
Mute, she curses no one
but herself.
These days must come to an end.
The hardened steel tastes cold and bitter
on her tongue.
Hands shaking from sleep deprivation
wind thier way around the handle.
Six magic bullets, a recipe for sleep,
spin in the chamber.
A Copper sentinel of peace
rockets through a hardened barrell.
At last, she sleeps.
long uninterupted hours
in a sweet baby like bliss.
Free from the struggle, the chaos
that engulfs her in her houserobe.
Slippers cover her feet,
cozy, fluffy, like dead rabbits
that whisper down the hall.
The counter top is cold, like her touch,
her breath as winter sets in.
The morning coffee, her thrill pill
to keep her sane day to day
swallowed in large gasping gulps.
Red, saggy, basket hound eyes
sweep across the room.
A mess.
The world makes little sense,
the daily paper confirms her suspicions.
The blackness of her insomnia
ripples through her,
a subtle poison setting in.
Coffee rings on the oak table,
once new and clean,
mark her days like a roman calender.
Tangled hair, knotted like an apple tree,
crowns her like the sleepless Queen she has become.
Smoke billows from her nostrils,
a fiery demon of nicotine
calms the weary blood.
Another day, the motion of the sun
has lost all meaning.
The cup becomes a heavy chalise
in her weakened hand,
spilling black nectar on her knees.
Mute, she curses no one
but herself.
These days must come to an end.
The hardened steel tastes cold and bitter
on her tongue.
Hands shaking from sleep deprivation
wind thier way around the handle.
Six magic bullets, a recipe for sleep,
spin in the chamber.
A Copper sentinel of peace
rockets through a hardened barrell.
At last, she sleeps.