Laying in Bed
Night lands at the hand's last strike,
and suddenly all the prior garbage ignites in a flame of corruption
now inside the mind, no longer scattered outside but
a compact, a tension, a pressure, rolled tight...
as it falls from one temple to the other claiming to shine
yet a flame of the lies...
and how funny a process that only arrives when settling down,
when slowing your eyes...
how funny, how uncomfortable a bonfire that lights only after the wood dies,
and it's time to lie down and slow your eyes...
everything else that day seems happy, seems prime,
you accept what is, smile, and don't ask why
until night lands at the hand's last strike...
when we slow our eyes and hurry the thoughts that want to know why,
filing the opponents of our endless white sky