Saturday, June 28, 2014

Nightly Ritual

Morning comes too soon
With tiny frigid fingers
Dragging me from my dreams. 

Inside the recesses of my consciousness
The language of ballet -
A dancer's feet 
Toes curled under
Poised on blocks of wood
Enrobed in pale pink leather
Satin snakes curling up her calves;
Muscled arms gracefully imitating the
Shape of the sunlight until they
Pour like its rays upon the earth -
The perfect choreography for the 
Images in my head. 

Night comes too late
With a vice grip
Pulling me down into a headlock. 
Into the landscape of madness and
Frustration. 
Winged demons floating 
Just beyond 
The screen door of my brain.

Seamless
Dreamless
Neither of which describes me.