I hearkened thee enunciating,
“Those who oft visit thy swevens in sooth miss thee”.
I can not sweven thine Eden.
I do not sweven—
Thou bequeathed me insomnolence.

Head sunk into the soft pillow
Envisioning dreams
That have gathered dust
In the hour notorious
For generating excessive thoughts

Mindlessly listening to the howling
Of early winter's bitter winds
The menacing cold
Piercing my skin
Quick to shiver
These bones have always been
Intolerant of the harsh elements

As though in slow motion
The hours stagger on
Surely this insomnolence
Has made it's point.

I’m so tired I could drop
But I mustn’t go to sleep.
Vicious dreams are hiding
Just behind my pillowcase,
Waiting for the perfect time
To tell me I’m inadequate
And guilty of egregious sins
That doom my frantic efforts
To create a perfect life
And move across humanity
In ways that make things better.
ljm

The blues, the blues, these Blues, the Blues,
The Blues.  The Blues won't stop moving,
but haven't gotten to going.  They're a-move,
they're soluble insomnolence, they're
indefferant irreverence
in reference to reverence.
The Blues won't stop going,
but haven't yet left.
All day, I've sat on this Furthest Shore,
unsure if they'd ever get to outgoing,
if they'd ever get to outflowing.

All day, I've sat and worse yet,
all night (we know the nights are the
very darkest sorta pretend-to-be-blackened blues),
sat on this dew-damp Distant Shore,
unsure if I'd ever get to outgrowing,
if I'd ever get to outgoing.

The blues, the blues, these blues, the Blues,
The Blues.  The blues won't stop wounding.
I won't stop choosing.  I won't stop two-ing.

Tilting at horizons, I hold anchor to
Torii.  Summum Bonum, I insist it be.
(Can't let it be.  {whatever it is.})
(Can't let it be.  {whatever it isn't.})
Gateway from humdrum to hallowed.
A red atop blues, also unmoving.
But still in its unmoving, still unmoving.
How unlike the blues.  This red, how unlike the blues.

She sings to me dearly
And to be weary, oh, I become,
Soothed by the tender paean
Of a songbird still too young
To fill my dreams yet unearned.
And come or no, the sleep futile
Does naught to hinder the imagination,
The creation of a thought brought on
By words placed in a cadence to be sung.
And on I yearn,
Held tightly by a voice angles envy,
A pitch that calls to the dogs of men
And whispers softly the dying wishes
Of those who gave in to dejection.
And it is with affection, I write,
Seeking reprieve from a world
Still wrought with insomnolence.
So save me, oh blissful voice,
And sing to me the song of my addiction.

You are the forest of my dreams.

You sway with the wind and tranquilize the unsettled horizons from restless cacophony.

You descend with the nightfall and melt the angst of advancing insomnolence.

You embrace the immure Sun and echo the wakefulness of a fading garden.

You whisper in the breeze and the Spring embosoms the fallen Autumn leaves.

You are the forest of my dreams.

You are the enchantment of my screams.

You travel through the perpetual reminiscences of an endless pathway.

You dance with the grasshoppers to the anthem of the reawakening civilization.

The syllables from your voice create a bird's nest in the branches of my endless thoughts.

Your unearthly tranquility creates ripples on a decade old river that flows through this ancient lover's timeless memories.

You are nature's sweetest hymn.

You are the forest of my dreams.