sleeptalking

Fleeing time won’t end this fight

When you’re fishing for words in a desert well

Waiting for inspiration to bite

And nostalgia to lift its spell

So that the body can remedy

The drought of propensity

In its north to west trajectory.

Its scintillating circuitry

Reroutes of pasts and histories

What today’s weatherman cannot forecast:

A logic left to gypsies and barefoot arts,

Alleyway pocket change and lucky pennies,

Coups de cœur et coups de foudre,

To explain why our lips never move

As fast as our hearts.

We spin webs out of dreams

To slip under the silk

Of what unconsciously frees

The truth from its pages,

The mental manifestos

From their lofty cages,

This writer’s block from a canvas’ empty spaces –

Because falling asleep

Needs neither charm nor eloquence

To relieve the mind of its mysteries.

And so we fall in to feel free.

We fall asleep to create

Perfect dialogs of sentient intimacy

Where speech beguiles

Every bone in a frozen body –

It makes the blues blush silver

Under the moons of fairytale eyes,

And paints the shadows of their irises

With brush tip syllables;

All to let its nighttime creativity

Make us believe that we love better

In our imaginary.

Pixels of three

Weave their primaries

Around our artist dreams,

Our static screens of faded l-ve

That live lightless and silent

In unawakened vacancy.

But the dark can only keep us quiet for so long

So bundle up baby

And press your lips against mine,

You don’t want your words to catch cold tonight.