Tuesday, November 21, 2006



Sleep cometh like the rain,
waiting for the quenching rest
slipping misty arms around my body.

Slipping, falling faster though time.
Look around, each day is the present,
fast as light.

Spin, spin, like a dream,
whirling through the periphery,
relatively here and there.


Radiating calm,
the construct of the present
is the prism of the dream.

Distorted images blur
their lines together,
linking the road into now.

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