As I drift on the edge of sleep
Where my desires and reality converge
Like wet sand on the beach
Left behind by the receding tide
To either fizzle out slowly in summer's sun
Or be blown dry by winter's wind
Bubbles of foam seep out from beneath the grains
They form thoughts, and then they pop...
Silently.
Does a bubble make a sound when it pops?
Do we care about the demise of such a fragile object?
Aren't our lives just like a bubble?
My eyelids flutter open and closed
Micro-sleep is only a term that constantly awake people use
If we're supposed to sleep a third of our lives
Where does the difference in the estimated time go?
Moments in this wee hour of night or morning
Where I'm drowning in a sky of my own thoughts
Am I really alive?
Or is this a lucid dream?
The answer is unknown
I'm already asleep