Empty sheets even though
the headcases reminisce
remnants of a commendable place.
If it's half past twelve, well that means
I've been slumbering northbound
for a giant's leap, ouch.
Enough blank face
to chase down a zombie's eek
and still I fail to assimilate
this wool pouch.
Suppose Fury's fangs fixate
on inanimate veins
that would explain this
werewolf gaze I'm harboring.
Too real for the pondering;
A Subspace Wanderer.
You can find me in between
the lines conjuring.