on the sheep with halos that haunt my dreams

Every night, I dream of sheep,
pathetic little things, with shaggy wool coats
stained slightly pink. The herd keeps their vigil,
lingering close together, in a clotted vein against
the warm, red stickiness of the nighttime air.

Round, glassy eyes follow close behind,
deliberately stalking my movements,
silently awaiting my confession.
Now, listen closely: this pain is holy.

Yesterday, I tried praying to God but
the only thing I conjured up was wool.
Laundry piles up in my apartment like
eclectic spires, clothes in heaps that reach
high enough to touch the clouds.

Someday I'll transcend beyond this, forget
the laundromat, those washing machines that won't ever
rinse the blood out. I'll languish within these empty
yellowing walls, and forget how it felt
to be needed, so sweetly.

i forgot what these kinds of poems are called, but the last letter of each line is supposed to start the next line. was difficult ... i had to revise a lot of it, content-wise, and i'm not sure if i like it