Nótt

For a time sleep was just oblivion
devoid of dreams
necessitated by the drink
otherwise a terrifying wakefulness
burning and exhausted eyes
slipping over shadows
caught in static limbo
a crippling lethargy.

Following the purge, dreams returned
but not pleasant fantasies or amorous encounters
nightmares every single night
for a year
regret and shame and panic
bubbling from their rusted cage
plaguing the comfort of unconsciousness
slumber held only penance, no relief.

Finally some regularity
at times visited by visions of dark and fertile woods,
of secret crooked mazes ripe for solving,
of gliding through the warm night skyline
but dread, not completely gone, still remains
occasional reminders of an alternate reality
specters of broken hands, hearts thick with desperation,
and the scree and clink of consumed drink.

Mostly though there is simply Sleep
the former foe placated by defeat.