An Insomniac's Fight

I lay
enfolded in
time, or whatever's
left of it

and find my eyes
drowning
in the hum of the ceiling fan.

No one knows
why
or how
I survive in the tangles
of cloth
hiding
absolutely everything

because no one
asks.

If they did I'd tell them
to watch the walls
and reach for what they see.

It's there,
concrete,
no such thing
as undefinable.

While I reach for people
I vaguely remember
coming through the walls.

Hardened hands, hips,
teeth, knees
and ribs
in my eyes,
definable shapes
in my mind.

Midnight creates
images of the dead,
the undead,
and the wish-you-were-dead,

lines them on ceiling tiles
in order of greatest
to least
hated,

leaves their amputated
stares at the door
and says
goodnight

Medusa wins;
the insomniacs fight.