Repetitive by B F Jones & Stephen J Golds

B F Jones, Poetry, Stephen J. Golds


It comes when the dreams don’t,

the midnight walls constricting –

within the gut of Jonah’s whale.

A mind like mosquito bites

thoughts twisting

like stagnant laundry or

a child’s wonky windup toy.

Staring into a colorlessness with dry eyes.

Gnarling the night away with

each wring of a bloodied lip

body twitching to the rhythm of

an invisible metronome.

It’s here, always

casting its searing iron

time after time branding your soul

with the rusty-red glow of inferno