I like my sleep long dark and dreamless. Fortunately I don't often have dreams. Or maybe I always dream and only remember a very few of them. I like the mornings when I wake up without the burden of a dream.

Yes, I view sweet dreams as a burden. The morning can never promise to live up to it. You wake up and realise how much you'd rather live in your dream. Escapism. I'd like to think I'm not the only one who suffers from an abundance of it.

Nightmares are better. You always wake up to a sense of relief. They always have a happy ending. You wake up clutching onto life. Staring fate in the eye and smiling. Drenched in the belief that the person waking up is that much stronger than the person in the bad dream.

But some of the best mornings are the ones after a dreamless sleep. Mornings you wake up and remember nothing for a few moments. And if you're fortunate enough that when the thoughts rush into your head you realise how everything is just where it should be... then that, my friend, is a good morning. 

Ashes

She's fire then she's smoke 
Now she drifts away
The burn leaves a scar
But I'm not the ashes.

Circle of Mist

I dreamt up a dawn.

In my deepest sleep I saw

Everything

Splashed in grey

Clothed in silence

And the cloth itself embroidered

With the song of birds,

Hidden,

In foliage softly trembling

Teased by a wind,

So soft, it’s almost not there

So sensual that there is nothing else

And the dew invites me to walk barefoot

Towards you

And the mist playfully hides you

But I know your shape too well

And the wind brings me your message

And I sit down and wait

To be woken by the icy heat

Of a finger tracing infinity on the back of my neck.

Terrorism is us

Communication of anger
Countenance of hate
Fall of defences
To utter ruin and we believe
These must exist so we can too
And though it chars and blackens us
Will not let go
And through our acceptance
Of the devil's blood
Monsters we become.

Sanctuary

I am so close to the window

that the rain sprays onto my face

and my hands clutching the grille are wet,

and the silhouettes in the twilight gloom

turn to trees in the lightning's brilliant glare,

for but a moment,

before 

they regain their imposing blackness,

otherworldly,

intimidating.

And the thunder is furious.

Its rage rolls through me.

And in the midst of all this

my troubled heart finds a sense of safety,

baffling me.

What mirage has it spotted

in its desire to escape

its thousand monsters

and ten thousand wounds?

And I only have to close my eyes

and the answer becomes clear to me

as I shed a tear to the rain

as I remember,

through the silhouettes all dark and wet

and the soft whisper of the rain

all around me,

a place I left so long ago,

a place I missed unknowing;

a mothers womb. 

Debt

If I never make it out of this prison, 

I'll make it a home,

paint pictures of all of you on the walls

and stare till I'm peaceful

or broken beyond repair.

If I cant break these shackles,

I'll just wear them to sleep

and dream of the life that could have been,

had I not been born 

into a mighty debt.

Comfort me then sweet darkness,

my closest friend,

comfort me.

The faint blue of distance

Faint blue is your colour now

A hill too far to kiss

Too tall to be invisible

Too shy to be naked

Draped in clouds

Hiding behind hills

Hills not as tall

Hills much less magnificent

The sun would embrace you

But it's not your lover

So faint blue you remain

A hill to far to kiss