The Sleeping Place

On breathing free

I fear sleep, The brother of death. I avoid the graveyard Of my bed.

The bones of emperors and kings, Ragmen, ragabonds and rascals, Mock my giddy gasps for air, My vacant breath a brittle game of dare.

Each fitful night I stare awake Surprised to see That light still lingers on The shutters of my life.

If the cemetery, Is the sleeping place, As it is in Greek, I yearn to chase the shadows That keep me here,

And join hands With the dancers To breathe free.

Note: All of Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle’s poetry in Medium publications is collected HERE.