The creative mind
never truly sleeps;
it naps 45 minutes
at a time.
Even, that which
appears to be
sleep, is a fitful
state of poetic creativity.
The brain is like
a patchwork quilt
that uses the scraps of
the day's events,
trying to fit symbols
together, like a
jigsaw puzzle.
Here's another one
from the vast
analog of the brain.

The eyes of my corpse are a shattered mirror.

I see in their reflection a hundred blue lipped hollow eyed refractions of the same moment.

This is it

Here - Now

The moment where timelines converge, forcing the universe to observe itself through me

Here,

Now splayed out lifeless and limp contorted to wrap around the patterns in the carpet whose million fibers reach out to embrace me as if to say

This is ok,

This is only here, now.

I am pulled through the floor into darkness.

I remember to breathe

And I awake.

The irony of spending a lifetime chasing oblivion only to cower in fear when confronted with its most pure form is not lost on me. I am a coward. I was always a coward searching blindly for something that makes sense, only to become lost on the far reaches of the inexplicable. Raging wildly against the mundane, only to to walk this same path that has so many times been trodden.

Autumn hits our hearts
like a wave crashing against
the shore

the dead leaves of love
are falling off the trees

and in the orange canvas
of sorrow we

scatter our secrets
in the soil

to be discovered
in the Spring