He lies on his bed

a poor composure of morbid clay,

his body can understand the

merriment of drowsiness,

but CERTAINLY not his eyes

and DEFINITELY not his heart

His weak eyes, blurred in sleep,

blinded by a spectrum of

closing eyelids, see the

moon and stars, bouncing

across the earth

Unfortunately when they close

there's this powerful picture of her

holding his cheek at a beach,

then fairy dreams appear,

then the dreams become noisy

then the dreams scream,

stabbing, slapping, strangling, murdering,

beating the silence out of his ears

Apparently, his heart is

rebellious to the silent song of sleep;

the pulse is like a running cheetah's

to weakly resist,

he wakes up to read a story book,

trust me, he is rather asleep when awake

than asleep when asleep.

                                        By Kakraba Afful