at night,

my mind paints a picture that screams in agony;

a painting of white flesh turning red and black,

flesh that twists and contorts to a form

that oozes with melancholy and hatred.

the hesitant masterpiece 

hangs from the dreamkeeper’s ageless neck,

a centerpiece on display.

but sometimes, soft blue colors

dripdripdrip

into my mouth and eyes at night,

curling down my face in a crescent.

on these nights,

the low-hanging moon watches over me when I sleep.

if i stay awake for too long; 

though,

i can see Death standing by the foot of my bed.

when Death’s cold hands stroke my face as i fall asleep to the rhythm of my palpitating heart

i wonder if 

my mind is a grave for lost memories that are fed to me at night.

memories 

that tear at my fragile soul,

and make it hard to breathe under the heavy cloak of sleep.