Dreamless Sleepers

there are things behind my eyelids that I am not
allowed to pull between my teeth and through my lips
there are things I should not say, I should not
feel, I have been told that I am stained glass thin
beautiful but close to breaking, so do not touch too hard

I nourish nothing, I tremble and bend often
it seems I am a pathological phenomenon, and there are
books that know more about my brain than I do
my synapses and cells are not trustworthy
they have led me astray and apparently they are sick

sometimes I suspect I may have deeper roots
in yellow silt, reaching down desperate
for something steadfast, something to anchor me
finding only empty pill bottles and shifting sand
and I am all gray lighting, dim and diminishing

I have always been the single withered grape in the bunch
my taste is dark and sour, and you cannot decide
whether to pluck me and finish the job, or to let me reside
among my plumper companions and pretend I belong
there is no correct answer, by the way

escape artists are relentless in their thirst for life
I suppose I admire them for that, but I am content to sleep
inside these chains, this wooden crate below the water's
surface, not quite drowning but not quite breathing
I have made my home here, knowing

there is little hope for the dreamless sleepers
above ground, and sunlight is too painful anyhow