My Poetry: She Now Rests

She Now Rests

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Wind whistles against window,
warm duvet hugs paling corpse
but sleep is no friend
to I, or monotonous minute hand.

As deep night closes in ,
my love's ghost creeps,
to and fro, piercing
consciousness like a corkscrew.

Nefarious nimble night, still
dances lightly round the bed
singing ghostly indigo verses, full
of gravest memories, which fall

Into shadow shaded room
while heaving howling wind cries:
'oh, woe is he,
that dresses day with dreams

'The pitching, rolling naked night
will not make manifest
lest promises pledged to pagan witches
stewing heathen magic brews come true.'

Insomnia song repeats till
madness starts to sing:
''oh, woe is me, who mourns
till dawn for return of she,

'She, laid sadly in salty dirt,
with worm and three and thirty rose
to hold cold body warm,
now sun shines on her no more.'

And so this spectre, nightly haunts
with soft incessant songs, which fill
the spaces left between the clocking ticks
where love, and sadness and she now rests.