Charon’s Mis-metered Limerick
upon reflecting on the peculiar state of mind created by 2 1/2 hours of sleep
My silence of mind is lost, now,
dropped into pools of phonographs turning,
scratched by the nails of the hands that I held,
struck by the fangs of a dying viper,
screaming like a jackrabbit cornered at nightfall,
howling into noon-time suns with unsharpened, unthrusted knives,
getting roped, dragged off by a dusty Brain locked away,
held mesmerized by a deluge of hymns
which crack burning whips,
sing folded lies,
and trick you into drifting away,
your body pressed against cold Charon’s
while your eyes and pores sweat blood.
