Will you please come to me in my dreams, after three and
before four, when the pain is less and sleep comes best to my sleepless brain?
The pain in my mouth has almost
gone with the sunrise. A root canal on
the horizon, like the dawn. Three Advil
after clammy night sweats, and sleep tries to claim me again.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, after four and
before five, when my thoughts express my hopelessness, and my soul needs its rest?
The pain came back in crashing
waves as the sun appeared without warning.
Gray-pink light from the fetal position, and there is no fucking way...
no fucking way.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, after six and
before seven, when the sun is raw as an exposed and dying nerve?
The pain isn't all in my body, or
in my hanging head. It’s closer to my
soul. And like anyone could tell you, my
soul is dead.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, if I have them,
after eight or nine or ten? When the sun
hangs low and the night comes back, and I’m too tired to feel.
The pain is no more. It has gone the way of my soul. Rest is inevitable, if rest is what it should
be called. Maybe just a break between
struggles... with what’s real.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, when my dreams are
the truth, and my open eyes look at what can’t be so?
A new
pain. What is real. Above the lies.
Copyright © 2012 Bill Friday
