I’m watching the trees dance under
paling sky’s thick cerulean shadow,
wondering if they’re like me.
Wondering if the bioelectrical fibers
twisting through the trunk of my neck
are like the gusts of wind braiding their branches.
Wondering if it keeps them awake,
or if it lulls them into enduring slumber.
I’m losing hours behind my circuitous strides through
conscious coma,
pondering those incessant curiosities of
permanent sleep
that so often plague the restless furrows of my stormy mind.
She’s looking at me like
I’m broken again, following me
out the door and impulsively pining
for a fix she couldn’t understand.
For sanguine is the nature of this
four-legged creature so stubborn
and at my heels. Striving to help
as she so often does.
But I’m not broken. No.
I’m comfortably subdued by the soothing
song of sinuous water cascading through
calloused toes, and the weight of
the stained notebook resting on my lap,
whose pages cradle the words of
psychological shadow flowing through my
murky
streams
of
consciousness.
These are the words that release me.
That so seamlessly pair
the id with the ego and put me to
sleep atop dew-lit grass.
The words that purge me of insanity, and pave my path
to self-discovery.
She knows this too,
Her primordial mind somehow
knows it and yes,
Yes it fixes me.
Written in the dead of night, as usual.
