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Monday, January 24, 2011

Deep Sleeper.

The hushed murmur rises to a deafening whisper.
I lounge wistfully, with feet up and head back,
In the tiny room sandwiched between dream and present.
My eyelids do not flutter.
My head does not twitch.
The employ of my title startles,
And goads me through the door to now.
Not my name.
My title.
The deafening whisper rises to a pitch of clarity.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper.”
The ‘S’ strikes my gut, stealing the air from my lungs.
I’m reminded of:
A child,
An oak,
A branch,
A fall,
The ground.
My eyelids now ajar, my head now stirring.
My eyes wade through the heavy darkness to find the author of,
The murmur, the whisper, and the pitch.
I’m still.
Very still.
The pitch of clarity rises to a muffled yell.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper!”
My heart generates the sound of a stallion sprinting.
I’m convinced the whole world can hear it,
And cringe apologetically.
I flip a switch,
The light wraps my room in a warm, searing embrace.
But I sit there frozen.
Icy silence.
“How do you know me?”
The question weakly slips out of my mouth,
Like a worm nearing death.
The muffled yell rises to a thunderous cry.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper!!”
Fear taps out.
Anger steps in the ring to face the unrelenting indictment.
I stand upon my bed and bellow at,
The ceiling,
The roof,
The sky,
The universe.
“But the days are evil!!!!”
“The days are evil!!!!”
I catch my breath and there is only quiet.
The murmur, the whisper, the pitch, the yell, the cry,
They all hide.
But they leave behind their friend:
A thought.
It resonates in my mind, bouncing back and forth.
A tennis-ball-notion.
As if to assure me of its answer to my dilemma.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
I lie my head back down.
The pillow welcomes me.
The blankets hold me.
The springs comfort me.
But sleep may be difficult to grasp,
As my head spins,
And my heart reels,
And I’m soaking in all this light.

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