On Work, Debt, and Feigning Sleep

What rank display of injustice is this; that four young graduates, new to the ways of the world as fledgling sparrows, pushed to take flight, should be treated with so much enmity for what they thought they'd done no wrong in, or else, for their ignorance in such maters, or their impotence alone, (which is hardly indefeasible in such a world of shifting states...) that for accruing- what is to them- a portentous debt on behalf of the city council, who should then be stirred to threats, and even more, add to such sum a little extra- for the cost of sending out a bailiff (as though a phone call would not suffice...)- so that salvation seems an ever fainter glimmer somewhere else, afar, ashore, and all the while we work hand to mouth, the richest men hide their money beyond the reach of the 'taxman', but elicit no response and elude the 'blind' Justice ever still.

I hear the songs of that place play out in my head when I sleep-
the repetitious myriad like a taunting that keeps,
as alike sirens; fade out and then leap
upon your conscious but only so brief,
but then it goes on so long and I still never sleep.
   I lay awake, feigning motionlessness, and time passes:
I breathe.
I turn from one side to the other,
as my ear turns numb, and I think
'how it seems I must be up in not so long!'
  I grow weary at that, my lids heavy to bear,
and though it darkens my vision,
I yet feel caught in a stare,
or better a snare! A snare to be sure-
for only a snare could keep one feeling so poor.
Yet despite this, there is better be done:
there is always, as yet, to tiredness succumb,
so I conjure at this, as I try to breathe slow-
my legs begin to feel cold, so I pull them up from below-
and I empty my mind-
or at least, I do try, but always get to thinking:
"If I do, then am I?"-
then the pursuit of dreams fills me and all anxious I lie,
hoping that something might just transpire
but I'm suddenly reminded- for no reason at all-
I still have no money and my overdraft's full...
   They tell me they'll take my possessions away,
but I only have little,
and what I do wouldn't pay;
it's mostly all broken, or falling apart,
but that doesn't mean that it would please my heart,
for all that is all I have to claim, and thus:
all I have to tie to my name,
and the man who owns the land
still wants his rent
but it's hardly as though all of this could be said,
and as it is, the only place to rest my head,
though it's certainly the nadir when it comes to my bed.
   And oh, this bed! Prithee, why so small?
That my toes breach the end
and my head hits the wall,
certainly, once it was said I were tall
but you wouldn't say as much to see me curled up in a ball.
Then my knees start to ache,
but I must move all day at work,
and work! That duty could hardly be shirked,
but to work at my best, I must first get some rest-
and that's the whole reason of this, don't forget,
and I wonder how much time has been spent,
as I turn,
ever more anxious I must be getting up again.
In the life of the sequestered, I am,
perhaps, at the top. I scratch my legs for a moment
but consider to stop:
anxious rashes are a bad habit better not indulged,-
this thought occurs for every time the act is expulsed.
I turn and I wonder if an hour has passed
and think, with affection, of the time just last,
when I had left, of a warm embrace from my dad;
kissing my mother on both of her cheeks;
indulging my nephews; entertained by their charms and caprice;
my beloved sisters and dining at a table seat.
And it is for such things that cause me to weep,
and the guilt that I feel for acting ignobly,
not least of all for being remotely haughty,
an injustice, if ever, it were to be true, I conclude,
as an hour awake softens towards two-
I consider to read, at least it's something to do,
something enriching, 'Yes, that's what I'll do.'
... But I don't. I exhale and wish I were simply asleep...
I thought I was, once, but the moment passed and I thought
maybe I hadn't slept at all.
I begin to think ,maybe I'd just forgotten it,
or maybe thought of something else,
and it strikes me as strange that something you just had
can as quickly become irretrievable.
Initially, I try to get a feel for what time it could be:
how many potential hours to sleep I have ahead of me.
I don't reach out to check, not because I'm afraid to know,
but because time is irrelevant.
I sleep for what seems like seconds, stretched out
across a span and randomly interspersed, as alike
breadcrumbs dropped into sand- cohesive, but not concatenate.
   I turn again, my finger hurts,
I am reminded then of work,and the cut I received
that made it surf with a wash of blood
in spurts that first occurred, when-
in what was only yesterday, I tried to put a glass away-
and so it is that flares up now
and evinces my countenance to scowl,
though such cuts, of course, are nothing new-
since my time at work, I've gained a few-
but just my luck that as one wound should mend,
another cause brings me pain again.

A Farewell to Winter

The winter months had chilled my bones and left me, somewhat, senseless; with their exit, I welcome the coming Spring.

The winter months find me cold.
It isn't just the hum-drum
of an ever present grey sky;
because even then, trees stand out
starkly against the bleak, grey, hue
in a beautiful contrariness.
It isn't just the temperature, which,
clutching at my toes, makes me
layer upon layer and retreat under my duvet.
It isn't even just the mildness, the indecisive
never one way or another all throughout its drizzle,
never kicking up a storm or blowing snow-
 a purgatory license sort of weather-
no.
The winter months find me cold
all because I am not loved. I have; receive, affections:
little things that make me smile and slightly
warm me up- a tentative touch on my hand;
a kiss from a friend full of feeling enough to burst...
They make me smile, certainly,
but it's never quite what I want.
I balk a little, under pressure; retreat inside a hollow
heart-shaped cave and try to purge myself of all animosity-
for like only attracts like-
and as the cold creeps in I realise just what it is I want:
this sturdy ground to set me up
and give me strength to carry on:
It is to fall in love, and know I'm
equally loved.

A Note in Passing

Much time has passed since last I was more faithful; in such a span I have committed myself more to certain things and less than others. As was my intention to put the following piece up at a time when it was more relevant, over the proceeding month, so will I now list it as another note, in passing.

It's hard, you know-
coming back to this room
once you've been
and gone
leaving me to only traces
of your passing. Leaving
me, otherwise, alone.
Leaving you is an affair
where words can say
too much;
my lingering touch on your hand
says more than any word:
"I do not want to let you go."
But, like air,
you slip through my fingers
and I look back-
you are gone.