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Inertia hovers, rectangular
over my bed and yet
the grave is not deep enough
to crush the fat from my head
Punch me, pierce, pinch my skin,
to test the rippling surface
of an unyielding dream.
I weigh my wanton wants,
hoping for less,
dreading the more.
Measure by defining measure;
nauseous at the bounty of God.
Crushed, not by earth,
but by a gnawing void.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
