Sleep and Squalor

February 6, 2018

Dreams tumble from her fingertips

as if they never existed, hands turned

to gravel from year after year of

mopping up hope with a ravaged rag.

She breaks into pieces on a ramshackle bed,

plunges into anguish, sweeping through

caverns that erupt with echoes of

fitful sleep and years lived in squalor.

She burns and melts into reverie, cascading

over memories trapped in grit and pitch.

Struggling against the fingers of delusion,

she explodes out of madness and flows

gracefully into the mouth of salvation,

pulled into the belly of sustenance and bone.

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