I feel an urge of sickly blue,
Of half-eyes closed in crimson hue.
A moment thought of in my brain,
I’m not so sure that things are sane.
These sudden coughs that stab my heart,
No knife or gun but pointed dart.
Then when I sleep from tiredness,
The memories are anonymous.
From falling night and golden moon,
Winter snow comes in early June.
So few of time there I feel it drone,
Yet many things the clock has flown.
Some things I ask about myself,
Is like finding a book on a shelf.
I wonder about the path ahead,
And there I see a hazy stead.
In stares and lingers of harkening shadow,
Come figment sight of bestial harrow.
Shaded lamps of beading light,
Throes not birth but strayed lives.
From uncertainty and lack of fight,
Strains of speech are blunted by knives.
The vision of me I dreamt I had seen,
Be nightmare, dream or something new.
Beyond sleep and awake there is my two,
What remains has no longer been.