A Mildly Maddening Imprisonment

by Shaun Terry

coffee in bed

My eyes feel old and pressed-upon,
cracked, dried, and burned,
like old, tan, dusty leather,
rusted-over roses,
bleeding the dried, motionless blood
of a garden in winter.
My eyelids wash them with turpentine,
briefly glazing them
with the vinegar-y residue
of worn, ineffectual tears.

The red rivers in my skin,
filled with magic, medicinal mud,
vibrate,
and the edges on my face softly hum
in alienating and alienated agitation.

If a pillow and a pill
could stop the world still,
I’d dive in headlong
and sleep to any bedsong.

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