Night.  Hot.  I toss fitfully, unsleeping.

    Oppressive.  A sultry spirit pervades the air of the room, opens my
    skull, and binds my brain tightly with fabric.

    Below, outside, tigers skulk, perturbed, in the undergrowth,
    seeking prey.

    Beyond, the desert beneath the shining stars.  Empty.  Silent.

    Yet I can hear the sea on the other side of the desert, the
    restless waves breaking against the tumult of heathen disbelievers,
    the arsonists whose raging fires reach up to and ignite the dry
    dusty heavens.

    In the town by the sea, rats leave the ships and invade every
    dwelling; the priests' incantations are powerless against them; the
    men and women of the town are reduced to primordial savagery, their
    civility stripped away by fear.  And yet, they are not abandoned,
    the rescuing armed legions march in, on this sultry night, and
    destroy the vermin.  The townspeople give thanks and, their faith
    recovered, vow to return to an attitude of worshipful devotion.

    Sleep comes.

7 responses total.

Thank goodness.

Interesting....Not exactly your normal 'sleep' type poem. I like it. It's
unique. What was your subject?
   I got war and strife...

Hmm, should it be called a poem?  It has the form of prose.

Not sure what the subject is.  I generally just write stuff and leave
it to others to figure out what it means.

It has rythm, flow, balance like a poem.

that's why the term prose poem exists remmers... :)

Hmm, not sure, but I won't argue the point.  The word "proem" has been
suggested to cover stuff like this, but it's taken -- according to my
dictionary, a proem is "a short introduction; preface".

I thought it was a tournament where prose pretend to be ams. or ems. or 
maybe a large shrimp.

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