I can't sleep again
that neural itch.
A tangled web of thought-streams
running like passing bullet trains
only to
spring back
on the knots they've made
and sleep lays caught in the net like a fish;
Still floundering til at last it gives.
I wish I could smoke.
Something about watching it curl...
like an entity climbing upon itself as it grows.
A fading vine accelerated into visible motion,
its' only support itself.
I wish I could hold onto some things that way.
Nothing stains quite like years of smoke,
nothing seeps in quite as well.
But for support of hidden creatures at my feet
I'd surely curl the same,
but never stick since blown out
the window
again and again.