Insomnia

These are the nightmare slides
playing in the psychedelic reel.
When insomnia comes to call
and we ride the spinning wheel.

A red-brick sunrise,
and alligator eyes.
Static at the horizon,
dynamic in the skies.

Copper-orange dust
on a painted desert willow.
Silver-tongued patina
on an old and rusted pillow.

A torn and battered suitcase
with a broken brass band.
A centuries-old clock face
with a faded second hand.

A calamitous cacophony
of cold steel cudgels.
A diabolical duophony
of devil-bound angels.

A dancing spider skitters
in the theatre of the mind.
Time burns like fritters
can we never hit rewind?

A man in the distance
bows to call you on.
His silhouette is an island,
a solitude of one.

A flicker, a second
a new dream of sleep.
To the oasis we’re beckoned,
but in awareness seeps.

There is no boat
no liquid right of way.
You may never keep afloat
or in the dream world stay.

We can’t have any sleep.
We can’t have any sleep.

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