Tiny, red skeletal hands
Stretch out for safety,
Thrash in the milky sea,
Elongate for the security
Of my swarthy hued pupil.
They combine and become
A misty army of miniature little claws,
Punishing me for the glassy gaze
I gave to my computer screen
When I should have been sleeping.
Clouded and content with their mischief,
I see them start their slow retreat,
Crimson becoming rosy
And hands shrinking to shoulders.
Alas, I never learn and they will return.
– Molly Johnston