Of Feathers And Thorns

I’m asleep by midnight,
wake two hours later, shower
then it’s back to bed
where I rest my weary head
against a pillow of thorns.

Prayer keeps the demons at bay,
all men know:
the greatest wars we wage
are against the gods inside our head.

I, restless and torn-
the sheets are worn clean through
the bed stands unbalanced on one side.
The weight of my soul a sin
too heavy for wood to bear.

Whoever said love is not possession?

Tonight, alone and terrified,
my fear will face me,
and I’ll haven’t the heart to look away.
I’m convinced the most I’ll ever feel alive
is when death comes to take me.

by Amberlee Carter

Comments (3)

Thorns, after all, are like horns. Yes, I spotted another horny toad near the 'clean through' sheets. H
You sound like you must be an insomniac like me. What is that poem about 'worse things' that gather round your bed and get worse, and worse, worse? This poem reminds me of it.
Interesting imagery here, Amberlee. Maybe I'm reading too much into the poem, but with all the bed imagery, the getting up to take a shower, and especially the sin that is too heavy for the wood of your bed to bear, that sounds like adultery