Prone upon the self-imposed celibacy of a narrow twin bed, I lie awake each night, tangled up in words that cling to me like bed sheets drenched in sweat. I peel them off my tender exposed flesh, yet their sour stench lingers, fouling any possibility of sleep.
In my insomniatic stupor I seek to inebriate them with the splendor of my words, but even in their drunkenness they cannot be dissuaded- until they disperse at dawn, leaving me alone, abandoned, interred in the irons of exhaustion.
Barbed wire words, hold
captive more childhood dreams
than cold iron bars.