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

mine however;

are spent drifting between this world and

the one where these words mean something

to someone besides me.



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