The pillow of an insomniac
cleaved by her back
tells of her vigil
sitting upright
in the black cold syrup
of slow minutes
the hour of the wolf
they call it
because it stalks the weak
because it devours
nothing changes in her grey room
but behind her eyes
the pageant of life
and death
rehearsing every misspoken line
rebreathing every choked breath
rewalking every unknowable path
sitting up
but wandering
trapped
amid the masks and powdered wigs
of
judges
and mimes.
