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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #940856
Sleep, that room next door to death...
Fear Of Sleeping



I catch awake to the beating of my heart,
like a clock striking in a dark house,
like a half-smile spread across not too frail lips,
like swallowed eyes shut into transparent flesh.

Pushing sleep into all things with every brittle breath, Life!
Where’s your fireworks now?
Does it bleed softly with my heart,
as if my eyes knew I was fatally toward dead?
© Copyright 2005 W.D.Wilcox (billywilcox at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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