Casualties of Nightly Wars

My bed is a wasteland,
an empty place upon which
I lay my head each night
and wait for Day to arrive
and strip back the shroud
under which I hide my body.
Consciousness, that ever-soaring
nightbird, flies over this ground
upon which my head lies, but
never rests, finding only
one body upon which to pick.
Yet you’re always beside me,
shaking my soul to restlessness,
filling my being with thoughts
of truth and fantasy that
end up casualties, too, scattered
around this battleground where
we fell, longing for dreams that
never came for respite,
let alone came true.

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