I'll take a pill and throw my head on a pillow
but I'll pluck the same four guitar tabs for an hour
The sunburnt six-string is a lullaby machine.
I'll wander around my dimmed house wondering
if anyone else is even conscious right now.
though I know it's nothing new to exist lucidly
in the ethereal time of night
and I know even when my body is paralyzed my brain will flutter away
shimmering cyanide around my skull
a synaptic pulse in beautiful sequence
neurons are shouting hypotheticals at each other
some are dwelling on the mannerisms of a boy I used to love
some are starting prayers with "if's"
most are synesthetically dividing everything I might remember
a phantasmagorical recap of random anythings
a half-awake daze and I'm navigating a hazy staircase
or an impossible maze or a repeating phrase
or the insatiable craze of a runaway brain
It's a storm before an outwardly calm
and an inwardly hurricane.
but it's just some thoughts thrown at canvases
that are frames of my dreams
and it forms a strange stream of subconscious extremes
while the beams of the moon fall on what we see or seem.
a few seconds later the sequence is cut and my eyes are heavy
the robins' roundelays tell me it's over.
Tomorrow, maybe more.

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