Starship sleep

 

I feel my eyelids droop

like clouds swooping down

over my eyes, as my breathing

relaxes into deep rhythmic sounds.

I feel my body become one

with the mattress. Warping

itself to hold me tightly.

Melding itself around me,

like a cocoon.

Duvet gently brushing exposed skin.

The breath of cool wind swooning in

from the slight opening of the window.

 

And if I sleep maybe

I’ll wake up beautiful.

Maybe I’ll feel more able

to face the day.

And if I just let the sky

combust into dreams

maybe I won’t feel so useless.

 

And I feel weightless,

like I’m floating in zero gravity.

A starship

soaring through

the space waves.

Me, the captain

scouring the universe

for new places to see.

 

I let myself drift,

like I’m on a spacewalk

into the black abyss.

The void, the emptiness.

But it is not scary.

It is peaceful,

with an aura of bliss.

 

And I’m sinking deeper.

I feel every muscle

sever their connection to the brain.

No pain, no feeling,

just weightless breathing.

Sleeping.

And I’m dreaming.

Dreaming of stories yet to be.

I’m dreaming of evergreen.

A walk in the lush foliage.

A kiss beside the bridge over the stream

in the forest in some unseen memory.

And I’m at peace.

My heart beats a steady rhythm,

my feet are not twitching.

My breathing is deep.

And I’m floating on moments

I so wish to be.

Blinded - napowrimo poem 18

 

I am blinded by your beauty,

so, I can only see the

wonder that lives beneath

the iridescent surface shine

of your lustrous stream.

The glow projected only

shows a feint outline

of the you that lives inside,

much more than

any evanescent dream,

so many

different doorways to open,

so many vast chasms of awe,

so many moments of magnificence

all underneath every pore.

 

My view dazzled by beauty,

so instead, I listen.

To hear every ephemeral word,

that lifts in reverie into the air,

like an angel reading

the most precious book.

So much to explore.

The stories soar,

the heart pours,

every beat - an ethereal ripple

on my own,

like my heart is a lake

and yours is the stone

that is thrown

to awaken the waves.

Your love claws at the walls.

Awestruck I’m lost in a story

that I wish to hear until

time's final chime is struck.

 

You are the moon to my night.

The sun to my day.

The air to my sails

and I’m a boat on your seas.

You make the stories grow

in forest groves, you give

the flowers the words

to the songs they bestow.

You are panacea to my ills.

The magic that spills

from the orchestra of the universe

and I am under your spell.

To be a poet

 

Someone once sang

'What becomes

of the broken hearted?'

Well, they become poets,

traversing distant stars

uncharted. They seek answers

in the murmur of the wind,

they search for meaning

in the multitude grains of sand.

They investigate the places

most fear to navigate.

They do this unguided,

with no map or compass,

just a notepad and

a search for purpose.

 

The lonely hearted

scrutinise every memory,

like a photograph display

of every day they have lived,

trying to piece together

moments they may have missed,

or relive that special kiss,

now frozen in time,

a statue of when life was bliss.

 

They inspect and probe,

they prod at every morsel

of thought that dares to move,

like a toddler pushing

their food around their plate.

Trying in vain to satiate the need to know

what will come on days to follow.

Will the heart still feel hollow?

Or will the sun shine down

and light a new pathway

over the gravel?

 

What then,

becomes of the

broken hearted?

When the brittle shards

have worn so thin,

that no superglue or sticky tape

can put them together again?

They too seek in the rain,

for answers to why they weep

when their tear ducts

are just sandy deserts of misery.

They explore the pain,

searching high and low

to see where it began,

and where the hope did go.

Then they take out their notepad

and start to let the words flow,

to show themselves that

brighter days will follow.