the waking mind has been to sleep
while the body cannot;
the soul doesn’t know where to go.
My eyes have been burning and dry like
a garden in the summer year, but
they’re wilting in their sockets, too
drowned in a need of sleep to bloom—
Mocking dreams begin to dance
in between my broken senses,
driving reality to
quiver and cry in the dark corner.
I can’t tell what is real any longer—
not without a flesh-and-blood help
to drive away all these vicious fantasies,
as cowardly as that reality might be.
I can’t remember what I’ve done
or what I need to do, and
were my eyes willing to work
they would be flooded over,
and summer would become winter rains.
Ephemeral words drift, dazed,
and echo where my nighttime dreams
used to live—it’s been vacated
because they’ve been given free reign
into reality, a truly terrifying thought...
I’m sorry that I’ve
birthed these monsters into the world;
but believe me—
I would have reigned them in
with blessed sleep a long time ago
had I been able.
Jetlag. I'm a complainer.
Thanks for reading!
-Coral-
