You hope for sleep,
Pray for sleep,
Worship this darkness
Never complete.
There’s a virgin before her mirror
On a rainy Sunday night
Becoming this, transcending that,
Etc. Etc.
She can’t decide whether
To crystallize
Or ferment.
Try to dream over these murmurs
Through generations’ whispers
Of the cities built,
The cities destroyed.
Now, it’s the fan over our bed,
Over this shared head
Whining and oscilating
That is our unholy
Pattern.
This humid night
Blows in every direction
As we hide our dreams
On rented shelves.
We look forward to sleep-
Forward to sleep…
Backwards we creep,
Always praying knee deep.
We hide our dreams
On a dusty shelf…
What ending have we chosen
For ourselves?
