It seems impossible to dream of them within my dreams it always seems that I am watching from the corners of their eyes and they are dreaming deeply, otherwise then it is so.

Impossible,
but in the answer to my dreams it seems the question is not tied by one,
Oh tired one am I,
Yes,
ever on the cusp the question why will always rest or rear its ugly head,

And more impossible to go by rite or rote into these darkened corridors, I note the writings on the balconies which look like jumbled histories and then through well lit doorways into boardrooms where consultants sit.

In breaking bread I see the crumbs, I see the drunkards and the tumbleweed that rumbles through this wakefulness.

Thus the end and I will starve or halve this half led life and share a quarter, given that it's not very much
I shall dream a banquet,
that's a little touch
of magic.