There is a sleep murmur, a language
of slumber, half words absent of full thoughts,
verbal creations satisfying the ears
while agreeing with suggestions;
nodding of the head and smiling
before slipping back to sleep.
Dreams offer partial direction, indicating the
chance to be or the place be all appears right,
and above question.
Night is the playground of unnatural lies
and minced oaths. It’s a net full of the abstract,
pulled in from an ocean of life where
pieces slip out, eventually leaving
behind what’s real and what we live with.
Roger Singer 