Insomnium

In the finite universe of my living room,
the sun lies swallowed
in a lightbulb. The glass in my
eyes draws in the atoms
of light; sound is an
alien element – the silence is
splattered on the walls
and is glued to my gums. Though
it is quiet, it is bright and I wish to
sleep. I wish to wake
in a crack of thunder
and drown
the world in a furious
rain. The clock strikes thirteen.
It is time for a dull
pain to slither and crouch inside
this finite universe of
flesh and bone.
The atmosphere is colourless and
clear, the wind of
breath is stifled and hurried.
Eyelash, lungs, spinal cord lie
synchronised but apart. We dream of
condensing into a grain
of salt and evaporating on
a demon’s tongue. Time is
running out on this
sphere; time is up
for the inhabitant of tonight.
The night is seized, dreams are
dead behind the womb
of eyes wide awake.
The sun grows cold and these
walls of silence come
crumbling down.
Daylight streams in
to find this cube empty,
its life form awake and alive somewhere
else, but not here.
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