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.


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