Night of Arachne

Too often I lie here
Perplexed by unceasing wakefulness,
My mind a spinning wheel turning sleepy threads.
Shadows move about the corners of my eyes
And I start at seeing a spider,
But it seems busy;
I return to my thoughts.
Webs, webs,
Muffle the clarity of my inner speech;
The threads of idea are tangled and made chaotic
Until I am bound at last in the dotage of fond sleep,
A sleep which weaves a thousand fragile tapestries
Then dies in a shriek.

George Chadderdon © 1994