At Bay

The bane of my existence is I rarely sleep longer than five hours a night.

 

 

At Bay

 

He thinks too much
everyone agrees but him.
Yet he pictures the thoughts
stacked in lanes above his head.
Waiting for a chance at landing.

He fights each night’s sleep
as if he’s drowning. Head
lifted just above the fray
pillow crumpled in his hands.

He sleeps wired for sound.
Earbuds wedged into his ears:
tinny threads of music
voices whispering, leak
into the darkened room.

 

Curious to see more of my writing?  Visit me – Brenda Joyce Patterson – on Facebook, Twitter, and my website.

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