I'VE GOT TO FINISH THIS

I cannot sleep for the dread of night,
cannot awaken for the love of sleep,
the snow has melted,
the next system is a machine

First, my fuses blow,
then my home becomes a ruin
disappearing beneath the terminal moraine
of a new ice age, then
the seasons slowly dissolve each other
with a thousand years of steam heat,
the sky the planet’s dull headache,
finally, the universe collapses
into a teaspoon of honest religion.
 
 

© by Bob Rixon
Stuttering 9-1-1