Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry

Day 204


My bag of worries
is still under my pillow
when I wake up
after a night
of solid sleep
but quicksand dreams.

It rattles with the
bones of unfinished
thoughts, and their
sharp edges worry
at the back of
my neck while
I lie in the light.

A bag of bones
plays a fast dirge
on my ribs and
my tibia, an
unsettling tune
of the uncertain,
and the wind
blows the curtains
into wrong shapes.

The acid melts my
skeleton and my
stomach, a man
full of holes and
unseemly regrets
in the cool of an
early morning promise.

No period of grace
under the storm of
countless cuts and
their steaming blood.
The room spirals in
synch with the black
bag of secrets.

I put it in my pocket
when I leave the house,
drop it on wasted ground
and don’t look back as I
walk on too quickly,
breath easy with relief,
heavy with guilt.

Sleep comes better now
and without dreams,
peace at last.
My bag of worries
is still under my pillow
when I wake up…




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