Sleep like the friend you once knew,
the one who kept you up all night
talking until the clock dropped off,
into the ether pile. Read a book
or write a poem, listening to the crows
that tear the old ideas apart,
hanging from the ceiling
in winding trails of blood.
And think not why you cannot sleep
(or perhaps you should?)
the sea is deep and blind
and still the sun must rise.
This small life is doing fine,
maybe it shouldn’t wake up at all.
painting by artist Boris Nicolaiev
I awake from sleep
watching wide indigo skies
breathing a new day
On salty waters where I cannot drown,
the times I sleep I float above the shores
in dreams of empty froth and meteors –
beneath the moon who wears her mottled gown,
and throws her web of light all over town.
In darkened streets my sleeping mind explores
shadows flitting by the silent doors,
past the sun who waits to take the crown
from the silver moon who steals the light
and scatters in the western wind that blows
in prickly wisps across my naked skin.
I surely will return another night.
A distant place along the river flows
while worlds of wonders in the sky begin.
I sit at my desk
exhaling breaths of
nervous reality, content
I seem not to care.
sounds I am sending
echo to my last footfall.
Clouds race by
to the ticking of
seconds, hours, days.
Staring into blankness,
do not wake me
for I am here,
disturbing sleeping stones