thou art my bedfellow.
You joust to slay my sleep,
pummel me with dire near-dozing dreams.
not to rest, but to rise instead.
Darkness turns light,
switch slapped by frustrated hand.
thou art the victor
your bleary-eyed spoils.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt word is “spoil” – or any form of the word. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time – come join us! Image from Pixabay.com