by barradarcy

Why does the dark not sweep me into sleep? When then I worked in rain, the dust and dirt... and them who made me, out about, somewhere, and you, today, too busy just to talk.

Why does the line upon the palm still hurt? Why here, alone with silence all around and other places far away from here remain, to clutter up the ear?

what could and should and would, if I had done-! And God! Great God! Great YHWH, Allah! San- Why do I wait? for night is this illusion and so is day and hour after hour... for we again must sit in disillusion.

Why is this bird that sings, one note at dawn? So eager to be first and heard, by all and foxes, gloating at the empty sky, make images of spooks and thieves. at I. They, themselves, have not some sleep tonight. They themselves think nothing of this 'plight'.

Why is this cold? and damp? and muddy eye'd... will power fading into naught. at all! Death is here, or something of it... now... playing card, becomes so hard to play.

So, Why? I ask, these images and words? this late and deep and so disturbed? I doubt the sleep of other minds is so. I doubt they dream or know of dream at all.