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going under in that exile it is nothing like sleeping
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whole lotta other stuff
going under in that exile it is nothing like sleeping
the mind hides it shrouds all thought
like the fog drifts across the warm waters
from freezing ages within the poets last passage
there are secret places strong by contrast
where restlessness seeks intention in the dark
as if to seek sight from a turbid eye
a night of wildness something so mysterious
a darker shimmer more than raven black
poised without perception like the shadow of a whim
very small while still waiting
reluctantly unconscious while I creep cocooned
trembling, hiding as concealed prey does
as time is perched deep under the spell
and life is but a last breath
losing all essence
where miniscule moments are rewinding eons
when one is only given
into a fleeting dream
that flew on the wind
