This itch, once rouge yet restful ache,
Inflicts me as I writhe awake.
Your welts have risen in their reckless surge.
I lie, insomniac.
I long to scratch, yet cannot purge
My writhings of this reckless urge.
My sheets are ropes and chains, my bed a rack,
My red-raw muscles quake.
I cannot reach the itch, my back
Is arched as tigers to attack,
Scored by talon-trails you scorned to make:
Your monster to emerge.
This sore shall be my saviour, or my scourge:
The itch that sets my very soul to shake.
Another request from a follower of mine. He wanted something metaphysical, and by George, I gave it.
Palimpsest 