Sleep Tortures Paul

He dreams of his daughter
snatched from his hands
by an American eagle,
magicked away by pixies,
torn away by wolves,
held for ransom by kidnappers,
floated out the window on a dark melody
by mysterious musical notes,
swallowed whole by a snake,
lifted skyward by the thumb
and index finger of God.

He wakes shuddering.
His hands feel so empty
they might as well not exist.
Touch cannot be trusted
ever again.

He can not shake this feeling
that he was pulled
far outside himself,
futilely trying to stop
the tragedy, holding on
until the predatory
Angel of Death
pried his fingers
away from dear life.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


If you find me asleep
on my back,
please roll me to my side,
preferably my left side down,
so I sleep better
and dream less
about the goings-on
all around me,
since that would turn my back
to this troublesome
twenty-four-seven world
that does not miss me
at political rallies, rodeos,
gun shows or bar time
and hardly cares
if I face the other way
with one ear to the mattress
listening for the melodious footfalls
of the Angel of Death
on the floor boards.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney