Warfare of the Brain

On my bed, I lie

Waiting for the night

To take me as the living dead.

Sleep does not grant reprieve

Even when I’m still as a corpse,

Settled on silky, satin tendrils

And hands crossed in prayer,

Begging to the ebony dark:

Seal me away deep, forever

Hanging just above the fire.

Sleep does not grant mercy

Even when I reach beside me

For a kindred soul’s touch,

For another’s ardent arms -

Embrace me, silent lullaby

Reassure me I’ll be alright -

But it never seems to arrive.

Sleep does not grant pity

Even when my eyes itch and burn,

Even when my poltergeist thoughts

Haunt and harass my apathetic soul.

My body is siphoned of all my vitality

Once again, a reminder from reality

Of how deprived I am of basic needs,

And that I exist only as a hollow husk.

So on my bed, I lie

Waiting for the night

To claim me as a dead life.