Night after night, 

into the miserable hours 

of another weary morning, 

I waste my time 

lying restlessly 

in a bed too familiar. 

Tiny branches of red 

extend toward the pool of darkness 

in the center of my iris, 

which, when I think of it, 

feels as if it is the center of 

my existence. 

 

 

The blood in my veins 

is a vital sign 

that I am alive 

and breathing. 

And feeling 

absolutely awful. 

 

A reminder than I am 

inexplicably 

awake. 

And aware. 

Of everything. 

 

Especially the 

silence.