slumber escapes my tired mind

how it longs to replenish itself in the still of the night

only in dreams to occupy thought

and, even then, only if it so chooses

perhaps the bucolic solitude is too much for me

the peace, too foreign

no refineries roaring in the background

no sirens from the fire station a block over

no static anxiety from the collective masses

maybe i, alone, am the problem

possibly, in some wee tiny way i fear what may lie beyond the glow of the porch light

the monsters and the legends

wolves and coyotes

craven wildcats waiting to pounce

the son of Pillow Face, himself, waiting to drag me off into the woods

and make me his bloody bride forever and always

or…it is entirely possible…that





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