Figments (Poetry)

By twelve the night will take me in his arms,
gentle me in folds of friendly sleep
and soothe this heart’s cold valley — winter-bleak;
dark offers shelter, shuts my conscious door
and shadows swarm to comfort me once more.

Fantasies curl wanton, warm the sheets
with tactile dreams and flesh finds what it seeks;
the duvet feigns affection, wraps me round
with insulating love, fulfillment found
in polyester moulding, smooth as skin.

Dawn intrudes, her face aloof and cool,
her pale complexion blushed by bullish sun
evicting phantom lovers, one by one.
The walls look bare, the bed a barren land
deserted when sweet night withdrew his hand.