Round Robin 4

The shepherd does not lead me
through the clouds this night.
As hard as I count, the sheep
and the clouds turn into pillows
that choke the breath from me.
I toss and turn with every stoke
of the clock and the pillow
against my face.

Invisible hands will not leave me
alone in my weariness--my pain.
They torment me into sweating frenzy
as I struggle against my assailant.
The hands are not attached
to anyone in particular;
they are attached to my thoughts
that push down on me like bricks.

I've buried myself alive
and have forgotten how to live.
I no longer enjoy the company
of the shepherd in my drifting
toward forgetfulness. My shepherd
has painted the sheep black,
almost invisible in the darkness.
My shepherd wants me dead.