In Suspension

From my the straining roots of my hair the ceiling grasped me tightly,
And my strands camouflaged with the dancing shadows.

The flickering night-light illuminates my yellow skin,
Like I am the moon stuck in the night-sky,

Or a Nazi lampshade. These images stun me,
Like a nightmare that makes me

Wake up in a cold splutter of sweat,
And I will find myself hanging,

The fan slicing and pirouetting menacingly
At my face.