Sleep drifts, a silky gauze
Descending from angel hands,
Covering me in a thin blanket
Of timeless peace
Till scattered images rock my mind,
A vibrant wind of noisome pictures
Blowing formless tangibilities,
More real than the phantoms
Of my waking hours,
More persistent than the lovers,
Faces fading now from memory
What is waking?
What is not?
Where blurs the line?
Is one more real, one more a life
Than nothing shared with many,
This private twisting drama
Speeding night on till the dawn?
Which is my life?
I long for one,
Wish all my hours there
In the comfortable horror of confusion,
Which solidified and organized,
Labeled and sold,
And praised in the marketplace,
Too dark for me this bright world.
I close my eyes,
Imagine the colors,
And dream to live.