Torpor

I slept,

I lost my teeth last night,
They were taken by little hands,
Shadowy hands,
Teeming from every nook and cranny,
Of this shaded cell,
A host of impish incubi,

I stirred,

I can’t fight back,
Sleep paralysis,
The image of the hag holds me down,
My eyes simply spectate,
This sinister comedy,
The hands mock my seeming,

I woke,

I need my teeth,
For without them,
How am I to entertain the guests?
The lords and ladies,
The drunkards and jezebels,
I’ll be a waking pariah,

I cried.

Sculptor Of Fears

Do you ever feel nightmares are handmade?
A cruel intelligence behind them,
A sculptor of fears,
Tied to our minds like a parasite,
Cognizant of our weaknesses,
Finding joy in our panic,

Horrifically creative,
And wickedly persistent,
Our sculptor fashions every horror,
Under the red moon,
I see them,
In my throes,

Spectres of all styles,
Screaming and weeping,
A leap of death,
You can’t avoid,
A tide of necrotic flesh,
Gnashing fangs and claws,

An endless watery abyss,
That holds myriad evils,
An unravelling yarn,
Rippling like a beating heart,
A terrible dark shape,
Blades following you through the halls,

I awaken a pitiable thing,
My veins become cascades of ice,
Have I escaped?
Please wake me,
Drag me from this thing,
This sculptor of fears.

The Voices

Last night,
In the early hours,
As the candles began to gutter,
Even as my eyes grew heavy,
And the evenings ale wore off,

I had a totally sane gab,
A completely lucid discourse,
With one of the voices,
Inside my cranium,
Or maybe several,

Voices of all pitches,
Their words cut into me,
Dark blades of tongues,
The points they raise are evil yet compelling,
I’m not fit for society,

The moon tried to interrupt,
Drawing me towards sleep,
Its song couldn’t be dampened,
Much to my minds dismay,
The voices continue their assault,

Sleep was no escape,
A failed escape attempt,
The voices followed,
The debate raged on,
In my nightmares.

Storm Of Sleep

Sleep has become a storm recently,
A tumultuous time,
Hurricanes of colour,
Bizarre images abound,
Perhaps call it a brainstorm,

Thunderbolts of sudden pictures,
Blinding shots of emotion,
Parodies of realities,
Both imagined and real,
I stir at every crack,

Colours take on shapes,
That I don’t really understand,
Dreams of lovers and killers,
Of monsters and smiles,
Conversations with people who don’t exist,

I begin to feel myself shiver,
The winds grow ever stronger,
I hope to survive the night,
I hope to awaken anew,
After the storm.

Insomnia

I fear that thing,
It preys upon me nightly,
Goaded by the moon,
Cloaked in nights masquerade,
An insidious predator,

It plays with its food,
Tearing my eyes open,
Forcing me to relive the errors of the day,
Over and over,
A hellish beast,

It prowls each and every night,
It’s clawing at every inch of me,
I’m caught in its gloomy web,
Chaining me to a life in the dark,
I fear that thing.