senseless in slumber
oblivious to the world
forget existence as eyelids shut
into an abyss, the presence swirled
floating in nothingness
no thoughts or intention
sleep is the therapy
that's not often mentioned

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and there fell a poem
into my head
like a song…

“One day you will ask me
which is more important?
My life or yours?
I will say mine
and you will walk away
not knowing
that you are my life.”

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and my dreams were filled
in my heart was a song
a longing so sweet
a desire too strong
till the museum guard came
and moved me along

Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
can relate
and poetry to which
people can't relate.
And that makes all the difference
in the world.

Nothing is moving tonight, the air is utterly still
A vacuum- it is the milkman’s hour but not even the static whizz of his battery disturbs us
Everything is steeped in silence, there are dusters in the ***** pipes
I open the window looking for a draft but even the street outside is flattened by it
It weighs all around, we are like dried leaves pressed between pages in a forgotten book
Where has everything gone?

I drift back to the edge of my dreams for a moment and in the corner my therapist sits- *****, grey and cold as death she watches. To her right is a tall walnut wardrobe, like the one in great grandma’s back room that held all the monsters as a child
Then its heavy weight suddenly lurches across the floor, a wrench and scrawl of noise then it tumbles in thunder and I jolt awake as it races up the stairs to my door
What is it?
Hiding under the silence
Now the house is hot and heavy as ever, and I open more windows
And reluctantly the air moves a little but still I can’t sleep