The Wasteland That Are The Bedsheets

Often, qualms set up camp on

our amygdala and serve as tiebacks

for our eyelids – and their preferred

hour of operation is the

witching one: I am coasting

on effervescent plumes. The pains have

subsided. The rotary hands

do not mock me, finally.

The people I love all sit at the table.

The surmounting strains have been paid in full.

The house is kept and the lawn is mowed.

All is —

A sudden and unforgiving jolt.

A flash of rapid concerns.

A vivid and concise definition of

all my wrong doings.

It is here, in the wasteland that are

the bedsheets

where I do not coast.

I am idle, still, stationary

as demons dazzlingly dance

in all their horrific hues.

What is left of my slumber

fits in a pinch.

A memento of recently passed placid pleasantries.

A relic of simpler times, or

fifteeen minutes ago when

I was coasting.

The brusque moonlight

are shards against my pupils, and it

summons all the energy I needed

when I was submitting, entering and relenting

the timesheets that track

my every fleeting breathe.

The futile attempts to

wonder off are met with

the sensation of the bed frame

being engulfed in flames, or

is that hell reaching out to

take me home?

At the very least, it is a

reminder

that these bedsheets are not

soft fellow patrons of the night.

Rather, they are

prosecutors assuring that

you pay for your crimes, and

rightfully so.