Highland Hallucinations

Lanky four-legged beasts,
Macabre silhouettes in the morning light,
Cast shadows into the icy valley below,
Prolonging the slumber, if only for a second,
Of the yet-snoozing in their colorful caves.

The creatures slowly creep skyward,
Laboriously climbing to the rocky ridge,
Taking long strides with gaunt forelegs
No thicker than sticks and just as straight.
It seems the giraffe of Broadway gave up the spotlight
To graze the vertical savanna of Japan’s mountains.
Packing our gear, we head out on safari.

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Never Enough

Wake up exhausted.
Fend off fatigue all day long.
Go to bed. Repeat.

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Awakening
To a blank spot,
No recollection
Of how I got here,
Or what
May have been done

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Riding me nightly
Day after day,
The carrot on my stick
Forever out of reach,
Until I collapse
Into nótt’s embrace

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They stare at me
From the slowly
Dampening pavement,
Cartoonish glimpses
Into the people

Dragging

Focus, dwindling. Straining. Lost.
Whose hands are these, with knuckles worn?
Whose lines are these, around red eyes?
Shifting in your seat, itching scalp, twitching cheek
To stay awake, reject the dream.

Wearing lament like a disease
A sick and feeble dragging creature
So close to the ground and now,
Pulling harder ever still.
Pining warmth and nimble skill

Fool-Takes-All

Dragging grudge-fossil boned,
Battleship-anchor chain jointed carcass
In hopeless pursuit of sleep’s
Elusive dryad dancers;
Through the glades,
Along the rides
Of silent, silver-filtered
Star-starved
Low Moon Forestlands.

The Race

Mutter under my breath
As I fumble in the dark
Forgot to leave the porch light on
Can’t get my key into the lock

It’ll be a close race
As I stagger through the door
For my face to hit the pillow
Before my face hits the floor.

–Russ Towne