Ideas rush in rivers through my sleep,
winding, wrapping themselves around
drowning all in their wake.  The itch
to begin claws through my lack of
                        imPulse
control.

The Golden Fleece at my fingertips,
the moon just            out                  of                                 reach,
births sweet agony and fosters it to
obsession obsession obsession.

Diligent fingers, hands, feet
where mind and heart has already left,
abdicating their daily kingship to rule the
abyss and dance en pointe along the precipice
willing hoping waiting
for the wherewithal to
                                                  f
                                                   a
                                                     l
                                             knowledge