by John P. Kristofco

he should sleep all night, but doesn't,
unburdened by the day's dis
sec tion of his dreams,
the gravity of drift,

maybe it's the ceiling fan,
rustle at the window, tick
of seconds from the clock beside the bed,

or maybe it's the pictures in his head,
painted once in sun and shade,
fading with transistor songs
that held him then, tethered
to the center of the world...

silent for these thirty years,
forgotten like the taste of spring,
closed away with photos and the echo of July
asleep within the darkness
of a lonely bedroom drawer

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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