THIS IS NOT A DREAM
Always between awake and away,
never quite found, never quite sane,
thirsty and reckless and blood on the brain,
nothing to tell if it’s night, if it’s day.
A spirit forgotten will haunt its own bed,
limbs itching yet it can’t raise its own head,
tangled in dreams, writhing in its own heat,
tongue captured by the shame that it daren’t speak.