The Slant.
I haven’t been dreaming.
I lie there silent, unmoving.
The room is completely dark,
Traced by deep cherry oak finishing’s.
It’s cold,
The air is still,
Only moved slightly by the teetering ceiling fan,
Spinning in a sickening repetition.
The room is parched,
And my lips are cracked.
My eyes creak open,
Painful and forced.
My body feels like a worn ship,
Set out on a torrent of emptiness and turmoil.
First mate?
There is no first mate.
This is an empty voyage
Sailing to an unimportant destination.
Every night I drown myself in a sea of sleep,
Aided by my plentiful supply of sedatives.
Three will give me 6 hours,
Four will give me ten.
If I take more than 5,
I can muffle the entire weekend.
I’m wide awake now,
Eyes dry and red.
I’ve been sleeping,
But I haven’t felt rested in months.
My bones creak as I surface.
I take in my first breath of air.
The raging waters calm,
I focus my eyes.
And I wonder,
Is this the dream?
Matty B.