“Soon, this will be just an awful memory. Will I ever be able to sleep again?” – Curse of the Virgin Canvas, Alesana
Last night, you didn’t sleep.
Your messages were answered
by mechanical silence.
On the day of the first
when people bring back
the memories of the dead.
Last night, sleep was a poison.
In which I slept and fed upon
and it crawled through your anger
and ate our soul like a knife
splitting everything in two
and blurring our sight.
I’d thought of taking pills
but remedies aren’t solution
to this scene of motion-sickness
brought upon the rides we had shared
up and down to sides and all the way around
in a fun fair of roller coasters every night and day
where the air muffled our screams and cries
six-feet deep below the ground with
one of our feet beneath the hole
as if we are trying to crawl
in our respective caskets
and ready ourselves
as our hearts break
for one more time
again and leave
Last night became a summary
of emotions, of laughter and cries,
longing and goodbyes. Indifference, to flight
as I was high above the sky and you
pulled me close after listening to the music
woven by metaphors of day and night
and of suns and moons.
Last night was a living dream,
a disaster and a night mare
that could put us both in an
endless startled gaze.
Stunned and motionless.
as we looked into the distance
That kept us apart
and brought forth
the sleepless nights you’ve had
and come into an argument
I wish I never lacked.