Thu, 07/31/2014 - 17:57 -- brenov


It's the gaurana, the crickets,

the dust bunnies gaurding curtains, gates to a kingdom of ants on a windowsill.

It's the tangled, ragged ropes, once daisy chains

with wide, flattened faces

It's the eyes tumbling, becoming rocks on the floor.

It's the room, with moss covered walls and moonlight winking through chipped bamboo slats.

It's the yellow orange glow of a lamp giving life to dream-catcher shadows.

It's the corn-chip crumbs and lines of cans standing together like misfit soldiers.

It's the weighted hot air and recycled carbon dioxide

that gives me this bout of sleeplessness.

It's the unceremonious blink of facebook chat tabs

It's the sunrise, pushing the ants into their respective caves.

It's the rocks, now magma

crusting in corners and fusing with table legs, making a meal out of thimbles and spools of yarn.


It's the sleeplessness that keeps the wolves circling in my head

their paws cracked and calloused, ears perked,

cheeks adorned with black chevrons.

It's the walls breathing, heavy sighs and rolling eyes.

It's the walls, limestone grooves creating pathways to mirror rivers.

It's the reflections that remind me why the sunrise is still a stranger. 


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