The two hooded horsemen watch me from a distance. The see me now as clearly as I see them through cloud and void it is but a dream but a thought and imagination. For they know everywhere I have been and know where I’m going and those that I remember who now have moved on
She sits on the counter top. Looking away from me but not with me or out of distain. She’s no one to me not a past face maybe an actress but desire set in flesh. I feel no desire for lust or for passion. I just feel. She’s a picture, a figment of some image of some stolen moment of someone else’s view
Overwhelmingly embracing the bliss before sleep, the heavy sounding breathing this thing called sleep has become an undefeatable beast. The head feels one against the pillow and rhythm sets in over all rhyming possibilities as I try to convey my feelings before sleep come and wash me away. To sit down and design myself to a fate unknown and uncontrollable. No sleep makes you crazy so sleep must make you sane. But we lie down and close our eyes to solemnly swear that we will wake up tomorrow and all will be there.
Every time I feel it, words just spill out. Each time I want to say more the heaviness keeps pulling. A weight has been lifted but I’ve never felt heavier. Who is this telling me to sleep?