There is something unimaginably cold
about waking up, swathed only in hard-edged
blue shadows, in the middle of a very long night.
It feels like the destruction of worlds,
the genocide of thought and reason,
and all that remains is to tremble and hope
for the swift arrival of bright-lit morning
(which, inevitably, comes late and grey.)
It is a shiveringly desolate sensation
that seeps into the lungs and stays
for eons and eternities, until you become
so weighed down with dark atmospheres
that it becomes impossible to get up
when morning finally decides to come.
I have stayed in bed for so long now,
I begin to believe I will never rise.