dash

Starved Of Sleep
 
Iím with those asleep
and surrounded by seawater.
I canít see the rain
but hear it falling.
It chings like temple bells
and finger cymbals.
 
Falling asleep is like waiting
for a suit to be mended.
Itís a forest at night.
A Christmas pony.
Iím nodding at maybe.
Iím shrugging at might
 
and the lie of probabilities.
So hush-a-bye little windmill,
cease your endless turning.
Nighty-night, old photograph.
I wonít be coming home again.
Some poems arenít meant to be written.

Bruce McRae

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Bruce McRae   would be pleased to hear them.

logo