Uhtceare
. . . . .l
He lies awake and not, awake but not
In decent consciousness, more nightmarish
His bed. He feels entrapped inside a slot
Of evils, waking worries, angst, garish
In coldest heat. This looms, sorrow before
The dawn, in darkness like a sweat from guts.
Distress like this comes only from the core
And it is like internal panic cuts
Its way beneath his skin and makes its way
Like Anglo-Saxon doom that forces pains
From night to morning. It is like a bray
Of silent monsters leaving poisoned stains.
The monsters roar their silence in the dawn
And promise they will never be withdrawn.
~ Phillip Whidden