Overthrow

Winch upon waking; the night is not gone.
Harangue at your terrors that sweep along the walls.
Make a shotgun of your pillow, throw lightning at the mirror.
What would the darkness have of you? Mass marketer of
fears, has aligned itself with your cheek, weaving your spittle
into the phantom.

Subtle, the moonbeams streaking, combusting like red coals thrashing,
you kick your legs, twist and wave, crashing downward through sheets.
The sweat beads sprout limbs, take their appendages and begin
their venturing onto the hills, that tremble as cat’s backs in the cold.

If you could shiver deep enough, to quake the dreams
that gouge your soul and harrow, split the barren continent from
the mainland, grasp it with tired hands and hurtle it,
have the discus splinter from the heft of the blow;
that would be a violent justice. You’d sleep beneath its shower.
A rain that you could drink of.

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