Only a sleep (Original poem of mine)

 

It is not the last number in the sequence
The last drop in the pattern.
Not the be all,
The end all.
The same repetitive conundrums
The raised eyebrows,
The feigned concern
For your fragility
The elbow room.
“He needs his space”
The glassy stare will go excused for now.

A lot of the what’s, the where’s, the how’s
Will always be a why.
It is the last flash of day when the curtains squeeze in the dusk,
The numbing light from the TV at 4 am when you wake
With the cold telling you to stop sleeping,
To wake,
To check the clock,
To wait.
Each click of the second
Reminds me of why.

It is the morning,
The birds brought no comfort today
Window slammed in disgust,
My reflection swimming in the bowl
Recoil,
At the distortion of myself.
Skin that doesn’t hold the life within it very well
Anymore.

When she left,
You thought of the possibilities,
But the knives were blunt anyway.
The thought of release brought no comfort.
Only a sleep,
Just a sleep.

Bridges over mottled water (An original poem of mine)

 

The darkness is deep
Deeper even than the oily pools,
That tumble in the recesses,
Somewhere behind my eyes.
Looking outward,
It is like a peacock
Splayed its glassy feathers
On this tarry mirror.
The mountains make jagged splits
Nursing the bulging veins
Pulsating.
I dreamt of the dive
It was clear.
From my house to the bridge
Not ghostly or ethereal
Just a shadow
A figure cutting through the haze of hail and wailing torrents.
I could only think of water on my way there
The smooth torpedo of my body.
I sat by the edge for some time
I let the rain reshape me
And breathing came in gasps
Handfuls of breath and spit
Propelled.
I thought of the green moss in the depths
The sinewy comfort of it’s tangles.
The bridge gave me my leap
My freedom spoke to me mid-air
Down I went
And the cold ripped away all thought.