No Moonbeam

Lying in bed,
some faint stirring of a dream
nudges me to wake.

No moonbeam through the window,
enveloped
in perfect darkness.

Perfect.

My eyes,
sealed shut.

Only on paper
will I survive past
living memory.

To my legacy
I leave only
recognizable
“commonplace thoughts”
and “dead” metaphors.

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Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry, Spirituality

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