driving tired

A place to go, in this dark
and a time, at the end of the highway
when I must
be there.
I combat silent and slow
the overcoming blankets
of sleep folding around my eyes.

Odd. Gravity’s physical force
loads such slumberous heaviness in sockets
yet is appeased by only one burnt offering
(wholly devoted as any flesh to flame)
hours of my consciousness,
given, altared, and set to blaze in leaps of dream.

If I withhold such time
to claim its control for my own ends,
my subtlety and daring to cheat
the tariff of bodily being–
that very consciousness dims
groans under the burden
of an offering kept in the fold,
until I consent, concede, or am conquered by
Darkness Beyond me.

If my life is sustained; held firm
on the knife’s edge of sanity
by lapses of control,
then by what white-knuckled illusions
do I haunt my own daylight?