Sleepy dreams that bind us to the next,
Tripping into the rosy swirl
Like a drunkard weaving through the streets;
Such madness born here at the edge.
A prophetic call to join the fray,
Born in thunder, released in light,
Not at all what we expected,
But mends the cracks and breaks.
The world accepts the fastidious chaos,
And seeks the calming terror,
While we sleep between the sheets.
Posted at Sunday Whirl