Nights

Weary and drawing of life's bitter test,
The relentless abandon my body subjects.
Spinning through weaves of ever-present drapes,
Gathering dust loosed from sleep's deprivation.
The hideous roots overtaking and tangling
The dulcet menagerie, a carousel beckoning.
Oh but for the wisp of the amorphous rest,
Its droplets resound at each waking call.
The stimulus needed to represent the throne on high,
Jaded and jagged, not wanting to seize.
The racing of images, phrases, and fantasies,
Fasten the knotted escape clear-cut and defined.
An extreme desire taxed,
And left to be withered and unannounced.
The true spirit let in but for moments
Of no weakness but the sorcerer's kind.
In my hopes to be implemented in castration's wake,
The nights, a hazy congestion do remain.


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