Where does this story go once I am down to the end,
when my thoughts are distressed and sleep is the enemy?
To where do I run when the rhymes spread like vines
through my heart to my lungs and I begin to choke-
not back but upon my words?
The past can come back, but merely to distract-
to haunt or sometimes remind.
With one labored breath at a time, I will methodically forget you-
learn to untangle myself from this web of deceit
that you have so neatly spun.
Was it always just for me that you have weaved so intricately
this sheet that I naively lay upon?
Or was it shared with the rest, and each harlequin best slept
believing that she alone made the first nest, this bed, her own?
The enemy I see, is not sleep at all, but me-
for back to my past have I looked upon, blind.
I am haunted by more than I have learned…
haunted by what I have failed to retain
and that is no one’s fault, but my own.