Between Wrinkled Sheets

As young night grows dim
shadows begin to twist
against the falling walls 
which are resting eyes;

Still aware of every haunting, 
nightmares approach in the distance
brooding sleep asylum,
rattled cage of rest,
aside from the panic attacks
my closest thing to death

Toss,
Turn,
with stress filled snores
before I fall in color,
bouncing off of the mattress
tired springs in shades of rust puncture ribs,
sweat slips from collarbone up,
and evangelists are screaming
in the multicolored distance

For morning
the pillow weeps
and so,
does the victim of midnight
between the wrinkled sheets.