Adam Quayle
Sleepless Dreamer
The soft orange light of the early–morning sun
Seeps through the gap in the bleached curtains,
Illuminating the dust–specked texture of her face.
As she breathes, her chest slowly rises and falls,
A rhythm of its own,
Known only by sleepless dreamers.
But the sandman's hand sifts the sands
Of time, leaving lines of rhyme
And the faded faces of photographs
Forgotten and forlorn.
In the hollow hour of dawn,
I still lie naked as a breath–swept memory,
Willing the clock to stop.
Page(s) 55
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