There is beauty, even in sleep.

There is beauty, even in sleep.

The unguarded pose,

Arms flung out, about her head,

Waving or drowning.

Vulnerable or secure.

No death rattle snore,

Not even a bleak, anxious wait

As breathing stops,

And the counting starts,

Until the next throaty wheeze.

She flutters.

And her top lip puffs

On the out breath,

Just at the corner,

It is a glorious affliction,

That comes and goes.

She denies it of course

But how would she know.

Worry is a tiresome bedfellow

When it elbows into sleep,

And wakefulness descends

With the unyielding crush

Of an iron lung.

It once was all too easy.

Just close your eyes and dream

Slip away from the noise

Of life

That always threatens to

Overwhelm

The tiny space you set aside,

For the quiet times.

And now, this night,

Those favoured halls

Are locked up tight,

Bricked up,

Behind colour blind walls

That defeat

All attempts to scale them.

And what space there was

On the inside

Is all packed out,

Cluttered up,

With …besides which…

and …after thought.

It over flows

With …maybe so’s,

What if’s…but…ands.

Speculation, supposition,

Hollow feelings,

The ache of premonition,

That never comes or goes,

And you worry

That one day your fears

Will burst through, inside out,

Which leaves no option,

You have no doubt,

Other than to lie

So very still,

And watch her sleep,

With nothing to expect but

The distant break of morning.

And the hope that may be just

A little tender rub

Of sweet dream dust,

Will

Sprinkle down upon you.