Shrieks of grackles pierce my brain
in the middle of awakeness & dream.
The cooing of the doves lure me back to sleep.
The time is told by the hands of the machine.
Reflecting on things I was unwilling to face
when the consciousness’ with shield & sticks.
Still the blood gets pumping no longer at peace,
distracted by the soft & cooling sheets.
Time to get up & fight to stupefaction
then floating back to the clouds of purfection.
They turn sour if dwelling for too long
like everything else, getting up now.
hotsurf_ 