Long hours forgotten in sheets of paper, A better bottle, more for nothing: Lost saints and false idols, Iconoclastic Oddfellows -- strange masters bellow Shows of blue smoke and mirrors, a dream At Bradbury's 2 am, shared nightmares Ending all the same way, with no Connection to be known except the lack of sleep.
Making the long drive, ending in your arms, No direction except for tiredness, no Autumn except for slotted time, No finished books, only started stories, Just a taste of dry leaves, dryheaves, and delerious summer eves.
My middle name is sleep, and I will dream In wakeness as easily as with my eyes closed. But sometimes the best answers lie On the backs of your eyelids. Read carefully.