Peacefully Counting Sheep

Fossilised in a petrified heap,
The body branded by a certified sleep,
Eyes are sanded by slumber counting sheep,
And the drenched weep,
A tides motion of white water creep with the sub conscious afloat,
And the mind adrift upon the rift that reaps havoc on that battered searching boat,
Till the anchor finds hold in those dreams so deep,
It is old,
And frozen in a thought cold,
A glacier,
Hands in amazement lose grasp of holds and fold upon the faces fascia,
A mask for beneath,
Clenched teeth under the smile,
It is the sad wallpaper underneath the new tile,
It still weeps with stains from it’s past,
A tarnished piece of a termite feast that breaches the staple spine of the boats mast,
Silence bounds with leaps to gain but not to guile,
To sneak low as not to show a shadow cast,
“I’m not angry today,”
Constrained bile and decay vile spewed upon the deck of this dream dinghy boat,
“The first time in long time,” I gloat,
Where the thirst for outrage is contained in resonance of a knell chime,
A bell that has the power to detain and reform,
To take the billow out of a storm,
The silhouette of hate culled,
The clouds and the night curtains pulled,
A scent of sugared lime sneaks through the shutters as they close,
Rosemary and thyme squeezed over the trotters of a lamb,
More damn dead sheep to count,
More cramped sleep,
And a boat that is moored on coral and thrashed about.
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