Lullaby

The tender pangs of longing find her in the dark. Nights spent staring upward are quickly becoming a trend. The drugs are there if she needs them, but she finds it hard to let herself fall. Life's grind is no major hardship on her. Work sucks, but she knows that the benefits outweigh the stress and the expended time. Dragging her hand through her blonde hair, right down to the black roots, she sighs and turns to the left.

Her eyes meet the clock, narrowed slightly, a gunslinger staring down a death dealt mark. 4 AM and where is the end? Two more hours and it is straight into zombie mode. The blue of her eyes will be washed away by the dark circles that surround them. Into the shower, moments to dress, out the door, paper bag breakfast, ass in the seat, dinging and flashing annoyances, phones screaming, the boss wants more and more and more, out the door, home again.

Days drag, of course, but by the time she reaches her front door, it all seems like a flash-fire moment. Inside again and it improves. Balls of love and fur come bounding to the rescue, yapping song, spastic dance, we love you and miss you and please, oh please, don't ever leave us again. For them, she will gladly be out the door again. Dogs have their own business to attend to, after all.

Returned to the warmth of the hearth, off to see what's cracking in cyberland. Who is he and why does he care and why, oh, why are his messages so damn long-winded and numerous? Dinner from a can. Food for sure, but at what cost? Little television and then lights out, right back to moment one. Tomorrow, though, she may sleep and dream and maybe one day find the man who lives there in Nod.

It's to the right now where the fur balls sleep, having their kicking, flinching, gyrating, whimpering dreams. They are loyalty and love; endless devotion, dedication, and understanding. She loves the sweet simplicities in life even though she knows the harsh, granite face of reality. Romance, adventure, and laughter all still exist in her life but have been lessened of late. Friends fade away and old loves find new partners to pursue your dreams with. She ponders if and maybe, never realizing she is poetry and they could never sing her song because they could not sing with her heart.

She brings her hands to her face and takes in a thick gulp of air. Everyone feels it and she feels it now. Loneliness. She wants arms around her, making her safe. Blood pumping through different veins, but flowing just for her. The mighty forward path of passion that robs you of air and inhibition, that starts a heat from head to toes, kisses to soft flesh, something to blush about, white-hot thoughts that suddenly draw you back to moments in infinity.

These are the dreams of the sleepless mind, and she dreams them most of her life. Some pay goes to hopelessness, but the check is on hold. This is not an end. This is just another night that the better angels hope all her hope for her. She will be knocked down and get up a thousand times and will continue to struggle to her feet for a thousand more. As she drifts off into a last-ditch effort for sleep, the wind sings a song that only dogs and saints can hear. It is a song of deep melancholy, but the message is contrary to the sadness of the tune.

She will prevail.