i used to run through my days like sand sifting through a sieve— or like the mist of you rising from your grave, daily you haunt my brain, a magnet stuck to this evil, gripped by nightmare, a force to reckon with, no cease or desist. i struggle to stand a Victor, i beg iron-grips. molten-orange burns. i dream of being legless— running from dream to dream to dream, begging for release of the night shadow, the beast, and plea for the day to come to my rescue. my pillow rock-hard. pounding waves. i call to my side that song from 1969, the one i use to soothe me but i lose the music— the tune drifting like sand in sieve, blowing in wind. i run endless to chase ‘the dream’ of each day. i stop. i breathe, i exhale— a murder of crows, a blow of wind, a tempest-dragon—mounts then rescinds.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Ravit Sages on Unsplash
The Artist From The Inside Out 
Very powerful struggle/nightmare, that doesn’t seem to let up..just loops and repeats. I think your second line is the theme line..from which all helplessness. powerlessness, seems to spring from: “or like the mist of you rising from your grave, daily you haunt ” Maybe I am reading in more than is there, but you express your despair..like the artist you are, Jay.
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Thank you, Karima. I do appreciate a good reading. Thanks for stopping by my friend. 🙋🏻♂️
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My pleasure to read you:)
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Powerful imagery.
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Thank you!
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