Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.