Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
May 21
Weary isn't the half of it
Behind this driving mind of which I've been

On a selfish quest and road trip bent
To distant spires by the sea
Where my timeful eyes can review and see

So many things

For she knows me well my feverish being
And remembers me still, that is until
The relentless Saturday morning thrush
Which knocks and wakes me inbetween

Ever pulling me from my feverish dream
Which I love as well with which to be

And so my dear, unless you are here
And within my thusly joining reach
With a quiet door and a will to speak

IF, but if not then all I ask is this

Don't wake me from this compulsive scene
Just let me live until you're live
For a little bit longer within dreams
Gotta love excessive sleep. It's what we humans do. Our last resort and escape from being. (:
Seanathon
Written by
Seanathon
Please log in to view and add comments on poems