March 25, 2014


Tube lights in my office burn like the sun
And the air-conditioner hum is a lullaby in the day
My already drowsy eyes sprout imaginary swords
And fight my eyelids to stay open
A bloodbath that masquerades as tears
As a gasp escapes like a yawn
My thoughts rush and settle on a distant mug
And smell its rim dried brown with coffee
Hungrier now, it floats to my bedside 
Sniffs at stationery and longs for the pen
Curls up, blanket over the head and snoozes
I continue typing about smartphones and speakers

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© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall