by Madonna Wilt
His siren call interrupts, pulls you
from your slumber. Dread layers pry at edges
of scattered dream and sink in heavy sheets
that suffocate. Some nights, a shadowy
light ferries across your darkened room –
but the moment dissipates before you
can ask. Slow prickling of nerves counts
off the moments until the litany
of voices resumes its maddening march
through the dark brambles of the mind.
Those darkly hidden passages strain
beneath the weight of the pounding
feet that blacken the hilltops of dreams
awakening the dread that still remains –
buried beneath that stack of unpaid bills.
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