SleepWalker

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Shocked awake

In fight or flight

The stars are howling

In the night

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The dark’s encroaching

On breath of life

The shadows writhe

I leap to fight

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Grasping ghosts

With wild eyes

Wrestling wraiths

With bloody cries

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Plunged into air

I leap and twist

And break a solid

With desperate fist

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Shocked awake

In the kitchen

How did I wander

This peculiar distance

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A clock is ticking

The sink is dripping

The moon is rising

And time is slipping

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Spirits gone

Like receding waves

Back to their hollow

Designated graves

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Bedsheets billow

On a laundry line

But dreams come a-haunting

Slyly sublime

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In the spanish moss

The moon blinks a peek

The hours run like children

Playing hide and seek

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And memories return

Like hail on cornfields

I will not run

From the past revealed

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I have to face it

To stand and let it burn

Otherwise tis meaningless

Another empty turn

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So let it burn

The smoke climbs higher

The strength’s refined

And weakness lost in fire.

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Ferocity Restrained

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That ladybug is done.

It splits its ruddy mold,

Splaying tiny fly wings

Unfurling from their fold.

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That still small voice

Is only loud to little ears,

And those tiny drips dropping

Flood our cities after years

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These marching ants move

Like a military fleet

While this tiny blade of grass

Is splitting concrete.

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That quiet gentle zephyr

Turns the clouds into rain.

The beach is built with sand:

Grain by grain.

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Slowly the seconds slip

Into many hours,

And the prince who has no people

Has no mighty power.

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These empty silent choices

Do a lifestyle make

Each breath culminates

To be that which death will take

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And every little wave

That comes gliding into shore

Makes the blacktop highways

A little less secure

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The eye is full of looking

But it is too big to see

The smallness of importance:

That restrained ferocity

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The fury of a pheasant wing

The insect’s compound eye

The force of fishtails flitting

The ladybug lifts to fly

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And all these tiny things

That we may or may not see

Tell us little stories

About our souls great brevity.

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Consider the  faux pas

Of making triumphal entry

with 11 disciples pulling you

on a stubborn stolen donkey

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The ladybug is done.

He flies away home,

And you are left to wonder

To let your blood roam.

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“Those dots, they aren’t my eyes

They are my gilded thorax

Those things, they aren’t your life

They are your little knick-nacks.”

-Ladybug

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