curtains are strangling the room i lie within them

the windows are rattling,
the curtains raging uncontrollably

i grab and reach and try to multiply
my arms to four

but the quake rages on,
unaware of my efforts, it seems

or does it?

it's quite possible, you know, that i sense what you are seething from your pores.
it's also quite possible, too, though, that the air is on too high, and you refuse to turn it off, and the sweat has been stolen by the thin air in the room.

i'll venture to say that i'm running faster than my legs were meant to move,
and i'll quit this race before i'm shown how the ground feels when introduced to my nose.

but that quake, or was it a storm? battles its way through the chilled night (not as chilled as the word conjures), making my eyes small and waste-like, and my arms forever flailing.
this is my least favorite kind of a night. accompanied by a gray thing who does not sense wrong from on. so eerily tired that sleep is not the rememdy called upon.

it's simply, well, just, i tried to do right.