She lives in an hallucination. Her battle exists been awakening and an anxiety-filled stupor. Her world a black hole, sucking inward with tentacles of spun molecules, winding and tightening around her arms and legs, promising eternal rest. Sleep an intoxicating remedy to her war-battled soul and she easily gives in to the promise.
A desire for sleep
she lay bent and bruised
a reed that blew in the wind.
Could she know,
the grace in someone else’s face
blinded eyes by traffic-lights?
Every light is red to her, green and yellow mixing into melancholic dreams. Images not of her choosing but hooded reapers of death, who from a side glance, briefly glow a sinister smile, telling her he is happy she has arrived. She knows not.