Sleep has become the enemy.
It’s once warm embrace has turned cold and menacing.
It has become a macabre dance of traumatic memories,
Halls of death, corridors of insanity.
Once a wellspring of renewal,
It now holds demons that can only whisper
At the edges of wakefulness.
Demons, pushed aside by the brightness of open eyes,
Lurk in the deep shade of slumber.
Lingering at the edges of consciousness,
They wait for exhaustion to lower the lids
And offer up their prey.
Then they begin their haunting.
Their tendrils weave into scenes of horror,
Building terror
In a throat that cannot scream,
In limbs that will not move,
In eyes that cannot shut against the onslaught.
