Blankets strewn

and feathers

flown from the

untamed pillow

roam the boudoir.

Let me gaze

at the barely

open tunnel of

the slumber lasting.

His mouth gapes

and rowdy

leather leaves

knotted with

vine trails

stream and float.

And when he

wakes, I gulp.

Where have

you been?

His eyes ask me.

Untethered roots

slide from

muddied sheets

as his form

cranks upward

like old chains –

those blankets

are wild as

cavemen in spring.

And I watch

(transfixed now)

tattered foliage

drift across

the bedspread

to tumble

on the floor

with leaf-mold

and spent twigs:

A heap of

garden’s lost

growth.

Then I fetch

a rake to

clear those

unruly dreams –

wolfish imaginings

best swept

under the rug.

Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved

Independent content creator, ghostwriter, author https://tinyurl.com/y2cgqhgv mental health advocate, and poet. bridgetwebbber@outlook.com

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