I wonder what it's like,
the gift of sleep.

~
In the mist of late night solitude,
                 from a mislaid plateau,
                 with a suitcase full of sparks

She observes constellations
        reflected as little needy eyes,
                        peering down at her

They could be midnight directives,
       postcards from distant nebula
                            suspended in gaffa

       "Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales

Still she wonders:

        will her children grow to love
          their perfect machines more
                                    than they love
                  their imperfect mother?
~

.
Go forth…
          Into the deep sleep.

Swaddled in the shroud
marked with the words
you’d let fall,
not from loose lips
but the determined grip
of calloused fingers -
that had danced (with purpose)
on parchment,
to the unsung verses
set to inspire minds
and tempt stagnant tongues.

Go now…
          Before the rest of us.

And as we raise our hands
in gestured farewell,
our eyes would tear,
and our hearts would bleed
into the wake of your sojourn.

.

He is mad.
Ridiculous and so unlovable.
A posing knight
who can no longer
show brilliance of sincere feathers.
The empty drums he plays
rattle hollow and out of cue.
What do you do
with lost boys?

If content is king,
clarity is queen.
Are you brave enough
to rule the world?

His eyes were deep as an untasted well.
Promising endless nights of oblivion.
When he asked me what I wanted to drink
I was tempted to put him to the test.
Because I'm forever a contradiction to either common sense or recklessness.
If you tell me what I want
I will give you what you want to have.
But when the guessing game is over,
we're both left unsatisfied and needy.