A heart thrashing to the sound of the owls who,
Plagued with anxiety and exhaustion–the covers drawn.
Clutching and clawing at me every once in a blue,
I lie awake lock-jawed by this infernal yawning.
Sleep–sweet sleep evades this troubadours brain,
Locked in battle with evasive slumber.
Constant swordplay wearies and drains;
Praying for conscious fade to black and umber.
Tortured sleepless by jailers masochistic,
For hour upon hour seemingly without end.
Hopes of escape deemed deeply unrealistic,
No longer this life do I care to defend.
What is one to do about this self-imposed draw-and-quartering,
But take broadsword in hand for the sandmans slaughtering.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~