Sleep

[billy]

“You are a red balloon
The earth cannot possess.
As consciousness forfeits its grip,
You feel yourself ascending-
No more than a shrinking drop
Of blood upon the skin of sky.” much better for me

He sighs. Tonight,
Sleep won’t be seduced.
At least, not that kind.
Yes, Tonight, the mind
Is a screaming train
Dragging its breaks
On rails of thought. strong image and better in this extended version

Outside,
Even the moon is sleeping
Behind blankets of smoke.
Sometimes, a low shine
Finds its way to the window
But that's just nature,
Playing jokes. struggle a bit with these two lines. (feels out of sync with the rest of the poem)

While earth,
Earth is alive with music-
Winter air, tires on snow,
The scent of pine even
Rings through night like a note-
Filling him with the weight of life
And time and memory-
An empty chair, distant
footsteps treading stairs;
Lying there, tied in the twine
Of night. i like the imagery going on in this part of the edit.

He gazes out of the window. i prefer this line to the original 4

Eventually, sleep arrives.
Not with the lightness of
A red balloon, but concrete tied
To the soul; blood becoming iron-
And consciousness, a sinking ship
Nose pointed down, towards the abyss it has even more great imagery

i think this is a great edit lawrence. the last 2 lines of verse 3 are my only nit and a small nit at that. maybe even the last 3 lines. for me they feel a bit to tongue in cheek. other than that i think you've nailed it. nicely done.
all jmo.
____________________________
First Version

“You are a red balloon
The earth no longer wants.
As gravity loosens its grip,
You feel yourself ascending-
No more than a shrinking drop
Of blood to onlookers below.”

He sighs. Tonight,
Sleep won’t be seduced.
At least, not that kind.

Outside,
The moon is an old light-bulb
Flickering beneath smoke.
Sometimes, if the clouds are thin,
It peers dimly through as if
It were dying, reaching for
Its last words, only to slip away.

But the earth,
The earth is alive with music-
Winter air, tires on snow,
The scent of pine even
Rings through night like a note-
Filling him with the weight of life
And dread and memory-
The empty chair, the
Footsteps and turning of a lock.

He looks out of the window-
“Only this could leave me
With such heaviness.
It’s taking-"

And suddenly, sleep arrives.
Not with the lightness of
A red ballon, but
A slow sinking, concrete tied
To the soul; blood becoming iron-
Sending him into the waters of dreams.


This one is causing me some irritation. I don't want to discard it, so any suggestions are welcome.