The Sandman

A poem about a late night rapist

When the sandman visits I try to push him off.

All these demons in disguise, terrors of the night.

I have one eye open.

Those hands, oh those hands, torturous, devious, wandering.

This viciousness has no rival.

The oxygen is noxious gas, and this pillow symbolizes sin.

I'm tempted by it's charm, but awake to the obscene.

I'll never sleep again.

I'll wait with a gun for the man, the man with the fermented sand.

That rapist, that bastard. Callow, coarse, and crude.

Raw animosity, unparalled hysterics.

The harm, the hurt, the loss.

Escape from the perversion, No-doze and relocation.

You can't find me. I maneuver inconspicuously, dodging all hindrance.

This anguish, pain, and agony magnify the intensity,

to alleviate this alliance, and allude away this anguish.