The Sprinkle I Call Sleep Poem by Tom Hamilton

The Sprinkle I Call Sleep



The storm tore at the pages, until the words scattered.
Every form matters, down to the last grass blade.
Though most times I try to pretend that it doesn't.
Before the pain grows so large it could physically carry me.

The seeds grew to trees and we sliced them to paper.
His reign made the mountains cry and we drank.
Love was not instilled to harm us, but for some
the charm alarms us.

You couldn't overshadow those rows of callow cackles.
Shackled to dabble in the rules which cliques must.
I will not conform, to those
molds of shallow lust.

The savage patterns have been choreographed.
Not the flailing oscillations, the still combinations.
The actions someone does, they can only do once.
Babies born separately to grow into this hall.
A synchronicity of misery, a globe
in a fog.

I grieve when I relive these startling scenes.
But they've already raged through the sprinkle I call sleep.
My cloud drifts many miles past the pillow where you dream.
Yet I'll never be allowed to find peace on those sheets.

It's that New Year's Eve dress, I'll remember the best.
Cut low. Like a scalpel operating on a heart.
As the table cloth ghosts hoisted a toast, when
you sent your smarmy friend to tell me what you'd said.
And we will all be dead, before we're
in this room again.

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Tom Hamilton

Tom Hamilton

Rockford IL
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