Thursday, January 7, 2016

Napping



savor of solace found


in the last breath before sleep


the forgotten image in


front of the heavy eyelids


the tiny bit of muffled


sound lingering on earlobes


before slipping into the


inevitable and unknown


 


and not knowing digs


down into depths of souls


with thirsty tyrannical roots


 


be it the first nap of a babe


the initial night terror


with the call of a banshee


tearing through the halls


to snap a parent out of bed


the tyrannical roots have


scattered their spores


throughout man's psyche


 


and not knowing infiltrates


the borders where now


no guard has their post


 


though it has been habit


day in and out, sun up and down


to slip into that other state


left behind our daily clothes


and stark we run through


the glare of both moon and stars


and dance on spider threads


dripping with the cold wake


of the next routine and hours


 


and not knowing simmers


on the back burner of brains


idle yet scheming yet biding


 


following the rabbit through


this habit of falling again and


again into the abysmal sea


where we don't see but feel


don't feel but sense as we


are the incense that burns away


a scent that fades from the air


to drift and wander off somewhere


 


and not knowing turns cold


when the idea of death dies


giving way to sleeping, then waking








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