The poem of not sleeping
the mental pathways bend,
the body forgets basic functions,
the losses, albeit temporary,
have a sticky feeling,
deep in the bone, unleaving,
carved deep in stone, forever,
the illusion of time reveals itself,
the brief moment now become unending,
hanging in the air, in the breath,
the moment which should have ended
continuing long past it's given time...
A NOW which should be a THEN
so the next NOW can bask in it's glory
never arriving, and the NOW gone old,
staying too long and growing unwelcome,
disliked for it's dullness,
but unwilling to leave.
The unsleeping cannot shake off moments,
instead holding the time inside their eyes
like burned images on a TV screen
or the coarse diamond scars on glass,
a pattern etched into the form.
My spine unsleeping curls unstraight,
it straightens only with effort, and brief,
before aches and gravity conspire downwards
to force me into a hunched-over creature,
forced to focus on my autonomous hands
and the objects they schemingly hover over.
Hands which no longer do my bidding,
forming their own plans and not sharing them with me.
These hands wish to explore my private holes,
to clean and examine the smooth skin,
to rip imperfections, bumps, burst pimples,
to scratch boogers, yank rude hairs,
to scale the teeth of midnight fur.