Restless

an ode to the weary

Why do the rays, of sunshine,

rouse my eyelids in the morning

when I ask not to be woken up.

the sheep I counted were sheathed,

in a bloodshot red,

anguish, mirrored from grassy meadow,

to soulful sorrow, laid deep in the troughs

beneath the fields in which they’d frolicked,

wake up.

don’t bathe under the nighttime shine

of the stars’ forgotten twinkle,

but a whisper in a frigid dark place.

don’t toss or dare tussle,

or seek to breathe

from the rigid iron chain,

tethered to reality

break free.

fill yourself with sordid air,

a lonely respite moment.

a desperate sober hymn rings,

as the last lamb’s bleak,

unspoiled coat,

withers the teardrops of your grief.

© Scott Smith 2019

All rights reserved.