Spilled Milk

I love best
summer nights
when a frantically pivoting fan
tries to penetrate the blankets
under which
I lie

compressed by mismatched sheets
to match unruly dreams
trapping me
in uncaring poisons
of emotions
dancing on my head –
board

Stone
apparitions –
of self inflicted Gods
forcing me to a bow
so that they might tread
oh-so-carefully
on my once unflinching lids

plunging into a delicate mincing dance
to raise the water level
as I watch passively
while the last trapped energy
spills over
and disappears
into where all freedom
now runs

empty glass
and broken saucer
cling longingly to the last drops
of used to be emotions
which ought to cry
for recognition
just as thoughts
ought demand attention

But they are
as nothing next to
my crackling shards
of my cup
which
runneth
over