I do not own my own sleep
For how can one put a leash on instinct?
Cycles are the staple of tradition
Good tradition, for that matter.
Arc of the misguided
I’m stuck in a world lounging in between
The equator of an eye.
Nor any dark and invisible worry
But neither do I plentifully nod to angelic dreams
I admit this dire shame.
And every so often slip into reality
Sliding through the thin line between tired lids
A visible fragment of imagination behind off-white linen patiently lingers.
And chains up those feasting on passion and hope
Unconsciously tying knots that morning must unfasten.
Conflicts to resolve before the first morning yawn
A simplistic stretch extensively delayed
Is this the worst that can happen in a prison cell?
Fear of the imagination is a heavy load
But nothing can compare to the consequents that wait in the break of day.
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