Nightman
At the dead of night, I woke With the sense that my dreams were escaping, All uncannily unspoken Like words at the tip of a foreign tongue....
As for language, I have none To express quite what strangeness overwhelms me: Something's changed and something tells me To be still in the roar of the distant stars. The night's full of fire, ice and water; by day I'll have clay in my hands.
The book is open at a well-thumbed mark The odds are stacked that I'm facing. Eyes grown accustomed to light and dark Can't catch the shadows they're chasing. Open, my heart, to the vital spark - A disordered rhythm is racing, It's a danse macabre I'm tracing.
As the fire feeds the flame, As the tongue finds expression in its flickering, Does each breath inform a name To be dispersed just as soon as it's exhaled? Was it to myself I came Or to some other strange and parallel existence? Will I ever see tomorrow, To wake and begin it again?
Open, the book at a well-read page, Hope triumphs over expectation; Open, the secrets of seer and sage In awe-inspired anticipation....
Open, my mind in the body's cage, Unchained in consecration; Open, my eyes, to the wider stage The firestorm of liberation - The night in conflagration.
With a shiver down my spine I come back to the place where I started; The sea of consciousness has parted But stranded is all that I feel for sure. As nightsight declines into darkness by day there'll be clay in my hands. I may feel the clay in my hands.
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