Coma
The clocks weep an ennui of tears.
The black hour spills
through the eyes of the house
and strokes me with sleep-poisoned fingers.
The chimera licks me with her languid tongue:
I drown in dreams.
The clocks weep a euphoria of tears.
The white hour yawns
spilling pearls onto my sleep-fingered eyes.
I do not awaken
and I do not die.
Bio:
Clockwise Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross dabbles
delicately in verse. She also spews incessant invective. You may
peruse her precious poesie and rowdy rants online. Alison’s
personal utopia would be to dwell inside a painting executed by Joan
Miro, wherein Frida Kahlo, Arthur Rimbaud, Jorge Luis Borges, Dr.
Seuss, David Lynch and The Cure all converge in felicitous,
surrealistic bliss.