Poem-A-Day: Day 328

Omega

The weight strangles the eyes
without abiding to constraint,
and giggles in the background
echo off red light reflections.
Goldfish dance dirty through the fog
as clocks tell different stories,
and closet doors wheeze skeletons
onto stainy carpet floors.
There’s a hum,
trying to hum sleep in deaf ears,
but the damnable things keep happening.
A rustle is nothing more than sounds;
deep resonation through possible,
or what may be tub or toilet.
The tugging is too much in the end,
and it becomes the end to means,
the coming to terms with grip.