Fickle Thing


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Many of my days are good,
rich, full to overflowing
Abundant with love
Buckets sloshing
Passions pulsing
Ever sure, ever wanting,
ever taking of it all
Smiling from the inside
to the out
And I fall to sleep
Cradled in the knowing
Of my perfect world
Right in all its imaginings
Other days, like seeming
clockwork sneak in
To toil, to tire, to pull,
to question me at the what
Of It all.
Waves high overhead crash into me
And I can’t seem to remove myself from this tumultuous beach, to simply
Step back from this seething shore in me and just fucking relax
Give me that! I yell at the darkness
Give me that! Eyes open challenging all
my stupid, blundering thoughts
Head on pillow looking up
At nothing
with fickle sleep not wanting
to come.

By Philip Wardlow 2018

 

 

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