Sleep Instead Of Dream

The night
looks in
with the secret light
of a thousand blinking eyes
dressed in indigo shadows
like a cocaine cutting whore;
grinding her teeth
on the post
of a knotty bed.
Lashes of trees - lids of
tickled persuasion.

Nightmares of black wolves
and thunder storms cannot
keep you awake when new sleep
is there tapping on the glass.
Watching you.
Smoking gravity and vowels,
floating like sighs,
touching every upright hair
planted in the the muscles
of the neck as they escape
out the open window.

Watch the night -
it watches you.
And dance this dance
of spectred madness
like the eyes aren't there.
Famous, with fine tuned binoculars,
writing down every filthy touch
on the pages of the skin
Illuminate the dark with abstractions
cloaked in shiver.

Stand atop the bed frame and whisper in blue:
Night, you have nothing left for me -
give me day, I beg you.
And the Night:
Rest your head on her sunlit hip
when comes the silver dawn.
You are as real as ever now,
there in a lover's bed without hope of tomorrow
or care or sight.

by Q. R. Gibson

Comments (1)

there in a lover's bed without hope of tomorrow or care or sight. A final line of sheer, naked terror, the horror-stricken picture of betrayal. What a great piece.