The miasmic thoughts flow unrestrained,
The **** of daytime sensibility removed.

Thoughts of far off events,
Hosted in worlds parallel
To our very own.

Dreams of the impossible,
That I’m to prove feasible.

Hopes of happiness,
Or the arrival of those
Who beckon it’s luminescence.

“Will my thumb, a now desolate scape
Of nerve damage and love ditched long ago,
Feel sharp sensations, as it once did?”