awake in my sleep

Irony of the priest sermon shred twine of faith into my yellowish eyes, gazing earnestly like deserted flamingos, perching on oaks, waiting to view what becomes of its drenched anticipations. What appears in the fourth moonlight? Things of adult creeping to them at my doorstep, Things posing intuition, summoning my maiden name in a hushed echo, Things dementia did to my memories emanating from blood formed of hot saliva, The fourth thing died in my unborn child’s arm. My bladder is fuller, lacing agony on my heavy soul, lashing my right eye-lid with strokes of failed attempt. The beneath world abhor loads carried on my swelled head, making me breath out my last air, I quit when I remembered the unending miseries while alive. Just two words; sleeping in alive, alive in sleep. The day raise a neck, sprouting drowsy saliva on night-life bat, blinded in early birth, came an orphan, died with parents. While the stars beamed to the tiniest planet, I lay emotionless on a stony bed, facing the airless walls of my devastated room.