'Tripped'

I dread the bed.

When the smug night owls returns.

Clasping, with noble claws,

On to nearby draws,

Piercing eyes fix

Slaying sentries

Just deployed

Taking notes

for Doctor Freud.

Time to rest

Time to crawl

Let it all go

For another day.

But rest only ever comes,

  In a true blue, deep sleep.

The shallows filled with febrile frolic,

Polluted,

Paddling toes dipped,

And Illusions ripped,

From daily placements,

Railings melted down,

For a new war effort.

Pots and pans and copper wires

Making here, sparkling Spitfires-

They blaze through, riddled with shot,

Taking now, a downward trot

They seem to smash through, the growing split

Here they face their Messerschmitt.

In truth, its really not that noble.

Its not that fun.

It’s the nightly grind,

Occasional, mute, white howls,

A heavy metallic fever

On the chassis brow,

Burning.

It leaves no mark,

No sign to follow.