By Gina Dawson
tossing and turning
from fits of non-sleep.
I give myself up
to the lost vision
of peace that evades me
night after night after night.
My pillows have little creases
(like my own worry lines)
that they wear caused from
violation by my hands
wringing them ceaselessly
all ungodly hours of the night."
"I shake my head
as if to make myself
believe the night has passed
and the new sky unfolds
with visions of promises
opening up before
my worn empty eyes.
"Wake up!" "Wake up!"
I remember actually
singing to myself
out loud as
a miniature adult.
I can't imagine ever
having been that young,
developing dream catcher
of yestermorn."
"A ray of light catches
the corner of my eye,
giving off an ethereal
glow that mezmerizes."
