This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

Languishing dreams where a heart grows still,
Slowing tick of the clock drives distraction to
Death's resurrection in
Grey of the day
Where the sun has lost hope and
The curtains are drawn.

Here I lie in the dark with the monsters of crowds,
Where the gibber and growl of the wraiths howl inside
And the pain rends destruction
Through chasms of fear
Where my safety forgot
It could breathe once
Alone.

Heavy pall,
Stuffy air,
Sweating skin layered greasy
And hair clings to face wetly grasping dead face,
And the memories surge to the consciousness hid,
Waking misery's wife
Holding knife to her throat.

Cotton tear-crusted and dribbled-stiff pillow,
I lay my head down under burdened despair.
Only movement I manage is flipping the weight
Of old feathers in cambric
To snuggle me down
Where the cool side o' the pillow
Soothes my fever
To sleep.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.