When I lie in bed shaped to my feeling,
curled in the corners of my curving body,
I am one with the transit moment of hiatus
and time. Do I dare continue writing this poem

about heavy sheep shooting talk wisdom
in the midst of meditation? In this asylum
the forlorn become solitude and I kindly
rest away the angst, the pilot of my bed sheets

close forward like bones melting in the
skin of my tranquility. I am one domain
here, no anxieties of tall monotonous
challenges that roar in the light of day.

Night guides me to the purest of darkness--
because here, light inside is good. In this moment,
I am forever, the gatekeeper of fantasy
and the unknown.

Arthur's picture

Last updated June 17, 2011