Vagabond Sleepwritten during a sleepless night Oct 12, 2001 Wandering between the wrinkles in the sheets My mind chews on the tattered rags of stress. Vagabond, furtive, recalcitrant; Sleep is a prey to be hunted. Time is unsympathetic, Intellectual and yawning, Ensconced in the smug repose of easy victory. Twisted under rumpled covers, a pillow becomes A battle ground; bruised and cratered with the aftermath of violence. Mercenaries with advertisements of surefire solutions Shamelessly hawk their wares: "Medicines; elixirs; late night tv." All are bunk. Each night is an adventure with waterlogged boots and a missing map. Sleep, however, is a tramp with no gumption. Huddled at a cold fire, Weary; slurring his words, He confesses defeat, Tempered by a parting shot hurled with consummate brass. "What took you so long?"
(Comments are moderated and must be approved.) “The Epiphany of Zebediah Clump”
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