Twisted bedsheets, tangled limbs.
The fury of another night, war torn
and scarred. The enemy, myself.
A battleground of my mind.
Relentless images invade
with incessant word. Pillows
and blankets litter the floor,
innocent victims of the onslaught.
A glaring clock mocks as
minutes turn to hours, and
a litany of worries parade across
the ceiling, no redemption in sight.
I pray for peace. I count my breaths,
waiting for sleep, an elusive friend,
to take me by the hand. Another night
of fury, and still no rest within reach.
– Ann Christine Tabaka
editors note: Augh! If we’re counting, we damn sure ain’t sleeping. – mh clay