Night its quiet
my brain begins to write its thoughts
forgotten from the day
its rhythm stolen from before
its intent banal
and yet theres always something new
that gives it yet another view
I hadn't seen before

in dreamed circumstances
created by the mind
its subtle memory
of unnoticed things
as if I lived quite blindly
unseeing
among unseen people
enacting a parallel life
some recognisable
others not
always entertaining
this other me
this other you

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th April 2016