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Post by Ivan Carswell on Jan 27, 2008 20:27:10 GMT -5
Awakened with a stifled scream, gagging on the mortal fear of drowning, slumping, limp and listless, shattered in defeat, too well aware the madness is returning.
Subsiding in a jellied heap, battered by the wear of sleep, torn and tried and near to tears and deafened by the manic sounds your ears could not dispel exploding blazing icons in your head.
Sleep is not returning. You wouldn’t let the madman in without a fight; if you could fight. Your eyes are drenched and shuttered tight against the burning night’s excess of sadness.
And then the gentle touch of dawn whose hand invades your solitude, the hand that moves with subtle skills, that soothes and moves through softened curves and slowly, slowly pacifies. © I.D. Carswell
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