Turn and Toss

From atop lofty thoughts, dropped off softly; so often, I lay awake turning and tossing, internal monologue talking, masochistic sophistry blossoming as it ought not to be. A colossal cloth, silken plume, ink blot shades of grey spread, peacocking; this offering of pebbles brought a monument to all of the impossible rocking before toppling- comatose and claustrophobic, I can exert no reverse inertia to stop this cacophony. Anxious, fraught, my worries stalking me; distraught and tense posturing; I fought to hold, my fingers taut; knuckles knotting, vices tightly throttling. Locked between clock's tick and tock, every second, hands painstakingly wrought- caught up, sudden and shockingly. Crawling awkwardly, clawing at the walls, coughing from the noxious oxygen of my own rotting sarcophagus. Insomnia fostering this paradox, mocking me; sleep deprivation walking, no elysian veil to cross for me; my own exhaustion the coffin accosting me; awful volume of this noise ultimately just grains of static all for naught, frothing and washed to sea. Copyright ©️ Andrew Crawford 2024