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To the Angel of Dreams, this brief request:

Grant me peace, a night of rest.

Your children run riot, leaving their tracks,

and scrawling graffiti in chasms and cracks.

No act of science, no pill or potion

has yet held back, nor stilled the motion,

the endless waves in memory’s pool!

Might I spend a night less cruel?

Not a dream of stones or pebbles

Tossed at me by angry rebels–

do for me this saintly deed,

you must know what it is I need;

rest without a wrestling conscience

fighting to avoid the consequence

of living a life outside the norm,

ignoring the cues of function and form.

But if restlessness is my only choice

except emptiness or an unheard voice,

I will accept for now the fate

of rising too early, sleeping too late.

Sometimes the only place to find

perfection is in a restless mind.


Late entry for last week, but at least I finished it! (For better or worse — and I struggled most with the word “cue.” Almost left it out, but I’m too stubborn!) Last but not least, to and for all of you, enough. . .