all day all night the swirling mass: impinging, rushing, cuffing — we can true love the pattern, and the pattern still mean nothing we bathe in insignificance and dry with our endeavor; a ritual we do with care on tiles of forever then look into our mirrors, thinking, “this deserves attention” — the images we … Continue reading "the pattern still"
The lonely night is never done; It stretches on, in endless wake – And closes in with memories And dreams, beneath a constant ache To walk upon the haunted earth, To lie upon a sleepless bed, To hope for nothing but the dark, And pray that slumber’s just ahead – But restless, rising up to go, To … Continue reading "The Lonely Night"
Sleep, I’ve missed you Many nights Waited for you Restlessly Conversations I relive But they’re not Reality Could I just but Clear my mind Then perhaps my Brain would rest Take me over, sleep I beg you Lying peaceful, slum’bring Blessed
the night’s alive, the city is aglow, the crowds of joy assembling apace as shapes and masses fill each bit of space along the avenues of come and go but one, a wanderer, can find no trace of what the lights portend, no shining grace that others, he can tell, both see and know: the … Continue reading "the night’s alive"
When dying on the gradual From smoke and lack of sleep, There’s many-colored visions and A tendency to weep Inside a frozen winter night Within a summer day, A habit of vicissitude Can lead to thoughts astray And mine are all in tangles now, With purposes unfocused, But what comes on the gradual Is rarely … Continue reading "On The Gradual"
Insomnia, insomnia, I think I’ve had enough of ya – I’m here awake and feel half-dead When I should be asleep in bed; But I’ll post on my blog, instead. There’s something wrong inside My head
Upon my heart and in my head A weight, that’s like a malady, And I would think of light, instead, If any light would come to me The night I’ve traveled long again, The moon’s dark path of memory: A crescent child, trapped within These walls of Insecurity
a little after midnight and still the noise is my head; although i lie here, clinging to images of hope or dread or what all else my mind can form from what it daily thinks and sees: and these vague thoughts I’m not the host but, rather, the disease