Heart's Ease

These death masks hung above my bed,
always shades, its ghosts portrayed,
this shade replacing former frills.
Who owns this deep-eyed staring face,
as if hung-over, blushed with bruise,
for shame these blooming hanging heads?

No heart’s ease, drift beneath their gaze --
the day’s too short as turn to sleep,
but gently swaying in the draught,
a cold chill slithers down my spine.
Where the calm medicinal,
supposed sooth healing properties?

In haze of doze, blurred images,
half-seen as if through frosted blear,
shapes mangled in my mingled tears,
low-lie life downing to drowse lids,
awaiting moment of the pounce.
Violas, charming, it is said;
mine violent, as charms spelled out.