those waking dreams like scum, no
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
powerful in a morbid way.
The furies in cloisters collude
to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes
and let livid colours settle
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.