a chill,
an ice cold serpent slithers
on my back
and I lie still,
playing dead
these are the nights
running up and down chasing sleep
and when its within my grasp
a night crawls underneath my blankets
and devours it all
sleep becomes intermittent
coming in between long spells
of bitter wakefulness
thinking the same old thoughts
and when sleep is finallly roused in its slumber
the dreaded nightmares crawl for their feast
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