Sheets lay in their crumpled mess. A beautiful laziness of last night's spell not yet worn off. Bird song almost prolonging its effect, as they carefully share their news in quieter tones. Reminders within our lucid dreamings. A soft, yet bright, light spills from the window. The shadows are blurred at their edges. There is warmth. The hazy kind. Lingering. Contented. Adventure always around the bend. Back into the depths that comfort offers...
Do voices die within you;
As you make your way forward.
Do they go with a fight,
Echoes screaming, on and on.
Power shook your soul,
Eyes not unseen.
Senses entangled though
- one thing you know for sure,
You've seen which way was up,
And you've not seen the sky for quite some time now.
Bed made, crisp edges tucked in. Perfect corners, sad lines. It is dull; the light that falls from the window. It does not delight the room in its presence. Coming and going. Gone. Eyes close to black film reels, as the shutter clicks over and over and over. There's an empty. Routine befits this slumber.
O, to appease this slumber's ache,
To be home, side by side
- but fighting with fire,
Reach your destination.
Discreet hands fumbling,
Moments held onto,
Clutching your chest, stop.
Stillness to desiccation of time.
Waking up to you, the bad dream fades. Breathe a sigh of relief. Yet you know I remain asleep. Reality beckoning at my wrists and ankles for me to come join your world again. It was all only a dream, only that.
You tell me I talk a lot about dreams these days. I have no reply.
I'll try Inspiration's hand again tomorrow.