Somnambulist

July 31, 2010 · Published in Poetry  by Jonathan Garrison ·

Though it’s three in morning,
I’m nowhere near snoring.
My mind just keeps racing,
after thoughts it’s still chasing.
They burst into bloom,
then fade into gloom.
Before one can take shape,
two are spawned in its wake,
and I’m left with the remnants,
just the gossamer semblance,
of what I was thinking,
ere my brain began linking.
And now I stare blinking,
my thoughts at me winking,
with impish delight,
at my fading insight.
It’s hard now to write.
I’ll press on, despite.
But as I grow weary,
my eyesight so bleary,
I calm to a stillness,
shed of some illness.
So ends the polyphony,
gone the epiphany.
I conjure a yawn,
and with it, the dawn.
No need for an ambulance,
I’m just a somnambulist,
who’s ended his travels,
lest something unravels.
And now off to sleep,
appointments to keep.
Don’t wake me too soon,
no, not before noon.
I have dreams to explore,
and my muse to implore,
to rekindle one thought,
I once eagerly sought,
when my mind was still racing,
at its ludicrous pacing.
But I’ll never return,
to those thoughts that I learned.
For it’s the chase that delights me,
what e’re the insights be.
Now it’s late in the morning,
and I’m happily snoring.

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