It comes when the dreams don’t,
the midnight walls constricting –
within the gut of Jonah’s whale.
A mind like mosquito bites
like stagnant laundry or
a child’s wonky windup toy.
Staring into a colorlessness with dry eyes.
Gnarling the night away with
each wring of a bloodied lip
body twitching to the rhythm of
an invisible metronome.
It’s here, always
casting its searing iron
time after time branding your soul
with the rusty-red glow of inferno