Room Service

Dreams drive me from my bed.
Before I’m done with sleep,
sleep is done with me:
rotisserie above coals and embers
of memories and regrets, guilts and shames.
Pestilence of the past persists,
pernicious liquid unseeping
into the sand of sleep’s restless beach.
Dreamland,
maze with more dimensions
than my mind alone imagines or creates.
Each night confined within a different cell
cruel addition, another room in hell.
Though I don’t believe in hell,
it seems that hell believes in me.