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.


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