I'LL SLEEP WHEN I'M DEAD

By Julie Shackman

Twisting,

Like a Flamenco dancer,

A tortured silhouette,

My shadow flashes against the wall.

My haunted, weary thoughts,

Darting under the chipped crockery of moon,

Strangled with frustration. 

Headlights wade through the trees,

Brushing across woodland,

Like gold tipped ghosts,

But on I trudge,

In my mind,

That desperate search.

My shoulders sliding,

Carrying me,

Into the gaping mouth of darkness,

Black rushes of grass.

I’m digested by the night,

The angles of my body,

Screaming,

Mocked by the dreams of those who sleep,

Who are fortunate in their peace,

Under the stippled glass stars.

The End.

#darkpoetsclub