Poem: Thirty

Thirty

Thirty past, this witching hour
colors converge and voices take flight
and a dream-not-dream apple
stares me down; how red you are
the fruit whispers
and I can't tell what's real
or not, fixating
from phantasm to phantasm
the blinking cursor, the shape
of a lightbulb, the way while is spelled.

Thirty hours past, even your jokes
are hilarious, even your stories
of a slight with your husband
sends me to tears.

As if sleep were some currency
from which we build our walls
and as the face's arms tumble 'round
we delve into the treasury of time
start pawning sense for endurance.
Eyelids falter and moats run dry
as the reminders of what's proper crumble
and societal barriers dissipate.
We're left with a distance far less vast
prompting me to lament in verse
why I couldn't control the yelling
or cheering or sobbing.

Somehow, free will is entangled
with it all, and as each hour saps
more from me, I feel less myself.