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,
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.