sleepless unsights

i occupy
the witching hour
my eyes open
at three o’clock
the dark whispers
caress the folds
of my scarred
indignities

it is the time
when every doubt
becomes too much
to possibly
sleep through
my shoulders ache
and my hands
are pins and needles
from clutching
awkwardly at
the surrogate pillow

i occupy
the moment that
sleep seeps away
replaced with
heady exhaustion
and screaming words
where the ceiling
ignores my franticness
sick of my shit
and unwilling to take
another garbage poem
unfit for any
one or thing or dream

i only truly
exist
in moments between
slipping through
the tenebrae
the cold chill
of death
clinging to my
too hot flesh

a witch
powerless to cast
the simplest spell
except of sleeplessness
and only upon
my own
insignificance

unsatisfied
with the silence
that swirls
in the gaps
that show between
dusty ribs
the sparrow lies
dead in its
tarnished cage

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