What calls me in the darkest night,
a faint whisper, a stirring voice from where,
that keeps me at the edge of sleep,
tossing and turning, no dreams to keep.
Just as my mind recedes
into the soft pliable web of slumber,
I feel that free fall, and those voices begin,
whispers at first, then demands akin to pleas.
I resist their affronts, their cold interference,
but they haunt my striving mind,
seeking silence and oblivion,
yet they persist for my opinion.
And then when I with regret, relent,
and my mind in sharp attention seeks,
this silence of an empty room pervades,
and I now awake and focussed cave,
and frustration rises.
They take me by the throat and shake,
each night as sleep draws me down,
and when I accept their attention,
not a word they speak, not a single sound.
This taunting is a paradox,
from my belief and their pointed grief,
yet still they hover over my wretched flesh,
claiming time to soothe their itch.
And so I ask for respite,
perhaps a daytime plight I can address,
to leave me find slumber’s gift at night,
and my opinion if they must, by light.
No voice then stirred as sun fell to night,
and often a question will be put forth,
but not by night these restless spirits ache,
and I find sleep without that constant drone, forsake.
Wouldn’t it be nice if death were as silent as sleep,
for us left here to meet, on our terms,
as open minds are driven to speak,
to those lost in realms, and seeking to complete.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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