Blue Butterfly

Some days, I wake up tired.

Tired of the running.

Tired of the hiding.

Tired of the being.

*

Sleep was restful, once,

in the car rides of my youth,

nodding off against the window,

the sun warming my face.

*

I wake with a start,

myoclonic twitches of interruption

jolting my head upright

and my body stiff.

*

Now? I wake with a groan,

a knot between my shoulders

from the problems heaped upon them.

I remember to relax and stretch.

*

It helps.

*

Dreams evade my ruminations,

driving me deeper into what could only be psychosis.

Was it I that awakened from my nap,

or am I still simply dreaming?

*

The chirp of the birds respond,

as the crisp autumn breeze

rustles red leaves off of silent trees.

*

A single, blue butterfly is my only answer.