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,
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
fill yourself with sordid air,
a lonely respite moment.
a desperate sober hymn rings,
as the last lamb’s bleak,
withers the teardrops of your grief.
© Scott Smith 2019
All rights reserved.