Palindrome Tragedy

How long, was it
long enough?
when the fevered sunset muses
on two great tragedies:
a palindromic life,
and the death of a salesman -
each astonishingly thin and trite
when you're blind

a false wind rifles shells
through the lonely-limbed trees,
where night swallows land in song -
birds or dusk both neither

this night is every other
and all the stars rest
heavily on this night, distinctly
as uniquely as the next and first -
it's a flower, a violet with its violent
petals, vibrant with love,
and not a racecar,
or a dozen dimes, spinning
one just like the other,
they fall like leaves,
i wanted

a billion stars binary blinking
and i'm thinking behind stormy clouds
a decision - maybe every decision - is conceived



I'm feeling a lot better already. I'm able to count my symptoms on one hand, which is a vast improvement. In fact, I'm mainly left with a stubborn cough and a runny nose (light), and I've gotten a (read: one) REM cycle on each of my last two nights. I think my body needed to start sleeping again, and I'm thankful for all the prayers that were answered in those two nights of rest.
I had actually begun to fear the night, considering it a time of unrest and tired, emptiness. I couldn't do anything but sleep, and I couldn't sleep. Joseph Heller could have written a ridiculous satire about such a conundrum. Now, I'm still slightly wary about turning off my lights and crawling beneath the covers. I feel as though I'm expecting some trick, and the fever and additional symptoms will suddenly shout, "aha!" flip over my mattress and hop on top of me while I struggle to breathe smashed beneath the springs, feverish and beaten. No one should have to be afraid of going to sleep.