By Sean Perrun
Sleep is a strange thing
To happen
The vision folds at the corners
The mind squares away
And reality melts into
The primeval burning liquid
A fever of forged ions
Pulses to oblivion
And casts into the universe
A holographically projected
Timid squeak that says
I’m here.
We wake into a snapshot
An image of life vibrates
At the source of urbanism
The facade of motion
Causing a faux-depth
Perspective on living
Inside a mechanical heart
Praying for singular reality
And a saviour singularity
Where the streets and bricks
Breathe with the same cadence
As I do.
We die as we live
In a darkened cave
Warmed by soft kindling
Tired from the noise
And defeated by movement
We curl up and drift out
Bobbing in a fake sea of perception
Guided by nothing
But vague innate knowledge
That reaches out from time
To grab us, shake us, beg us
Not to.