The bats— a poem

They come in the night like bats on the wing

whirring behind my eyes,

writhing into my reptilian brain

quickening my pulse.

They creep down my chest to my gut

form hard lumps that lurch

like motion sickness.

But I am not moving my body or mind.

It is the bats. I wait and wait

until they wrap up and rest

so I can too.


[The first line of this poem came to me at least a couple of years ago, as I was trying to sleep. I’d tried to write it a couple of times with no success. The concept for the rest came the night before I published it here, also as I was trying to sleep. This writing thing is sure odd sometimes.]

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