Wake no More

I’m happy with indifference.
Secretly in thrall with
the things that annoy.
I’m a pent-up spendthrift,
with itchy fingers
and a trigger stick.
Rolled into the folds,
lying back and looking
at the swollen sky –
waiting for clouds
to burst forth and
fall back down to ground.
I’m the wooden hope,
that spends too much time
a thinking.

Drinking in the day
until it flows through
to the night.
When the rest of you
are sleeping,
I’m silently awake.
Twisting cobwebs
beneath an eiderdown.
Listening to the air
as it blows on past.
The ragged rail of
city sounds and music,
and the breathing –
low and shallow.

Like the man dying
in the next bed
and the sucking of his tubes.
I know in the morning,
he will be gone.
And the bed emptied,
sheets changed,
and pillows pumped.
And his machines idle,
and the stains cleaned
from around the floor.
Wake no more he whispers –
wake no more.

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