In the middle of day
I went to sleep.
When the afternoon was dancing,
the sun cascading like a waterfall
into every shadow.
Then, in the sinister silence
of the night I woke.
Exploring every crevice of the bed.
Fluffing my pillow,
and like a sentry looking
past the window.
What goes there?
Sounds I never hear in the daylight.
So tired, but impossible
to return to the balm of dreams.
Birds whimper.
Does the world in a secret congress
stare into the dark like this,
and long for the first sliver of dawn
to sigh?
Perhaps as time accumulates
our story,
and there is no sleep left for us.
So much wants to come back.
A life waiting to wake up again.
To reclaim streets and joys,
while the present is shoved aside.
Man and beast,
tree and bird,
wanting back what was had,
with no time left
for the healing innocence of sleep.