Lost Way Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Sleeplessness swallows slumber,
to disencumber the mummer’s
fear of fear, fear of end of indian summer,
follows the night that swallows the night which swallowed nights without number.

Night melts into day
as the hours devour
life’s fragile flower
whose minute petals
peal peel away
as each second settles
one by one as one. Our stay -
be it floral bower,
or doomed to cower sour
behind bars metal, -
proves brief holiday
showing our mettle
pointless as the play
is doomed to nettle
disappoints, unsettles,
impotence empowers
as storm-clouds lower,
ends in both overstay, lost way.

Sleeplessness dismembers the mummer
who, hollow, in fear of fear, of doom’s drummer,
lumbers number and dumber tombwards,
on towards the night which swallows nights without number
it won't ward off.