It was a dull circle of sleep.
A separation where day folds into
slumbered haze. Mumbled half
words tumble out. An occasional
roar breaks the silence. It’s a time
between lucid and insanity. Emptiness
and heroism. A storm of thoughts strike
the base of heaven; the soul envies the
catacombs of control.
Hours appear to standstill. The clock fails.
Sleep is the master of being away.
Back from deep water travel, the eyes
open. Small minutes start the day.
Roger Singer 