Pickerel frog enjoying some choice pavement on a foggy night.
Us twain, far and away,
lying awake at strange hours,
hopeful that we may
scour the waning day
for stray fragments in which
we shall meet again,
saying as much as we can
in fleeting dreams of someday.
It seems that the mundane
is all I really crave
to someway attain;
figments of order
in a long line of lifetimes
defined by disarray -
a space between
the racing thoughts
where I can just be.
Has the world slowed down,
or is it just me,
holding my breath
as time passes by
at a painstaking pace?
How far can a wish get one
at face value
when all other options
have failed to pull through
and life has left you
too afraid to move?
It's 3 am on a Monday
and I can't sleep.
This post has content warnings for: Entomophobia, Insects.
