Because I know each crease of sheet
And fold of blanket, still.
Motionless, morose and numb,
I study a thousand yards of bed.
As a witless observer,
A hanging, ineffectual god,
Purveying the hills and troughs,
By piles of bones beneath.

Here lies the truest earth,
Frozen under layers.
Leaking sadness, how it shakes.
Maybe it is cold?
But these covers are stifling.
Maybe it is ill?
No, nothing lives in these veins,
Save poisoned memories
And recited, pleasured motions.

There are rooms nearby that beckon,
A world that sings of need.
A chorus of complacency,
Returns the writhing form.
He shakes, he sweats, he moves his limbs.
He yearns for pain and punishment,
A pallor, pale yet somehow flush.
He rides the mare's to midnight's bluff,
And closes for the kill...
Because I know each crease of sheet,
And fold of blanket, still.


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