while I sleep
words are whispered into my memory.
In my dreams I can feel them stroke my tongue
as I try to chase the fog away from my brain.
Somehow closed eyes don’t prevent
the stampede of those thoughts
from fighting to get onto paper.
The pen and pad on my nightstand are my late night companions
used to exorcise the possession of my left hand.
For most people nights are made for sleeping
are spent drifting between this world and
the one where these words mean something
to someone besides me.