It rummages about,
rampaging in the dark clarity of slumber,
rifling through shelved ideas.
Cluttered it comes to be
half-past acceptance of being awake,
half-before the sun’s encroaching glare.
In perfect lighting,
Shadows thrive in ignorance,
undiscovered by the myth of lucidity.
Catharsis denied in dampened returns to the bed,
unclean by the shocked, sweat-stained rhythm
of a figure rising to prepare a fall
into the corridors of the lurking expectations,
rummaging about in imperfect theater;
the impetus of inevitable disappointment.
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 