Below the Sun
From behind the shadows in my blue room, night comes but I am wide awake. I can hear my heart in my pillow. Familiar dreams—rusty, pensive, ready to pounce, sit stagnant at my bedside. I stare so hard without blinking that my water glass beside me begins to breathe with anticipation. A dog barks. An ambulance cries. I am uneasy aside my calmness. Nocturnal mania ensues within the bounds of my skull. Untethered half empty epiphanies are charge-less. I look at the moon but it is too far away to visit. I open a book, blank. If I write or paint—I’ve succumbed. So I meditate on the stillness. My floor moans here and there. A faucet spits. Just then the elderly begin to stir. It is dawn. The early risers are rustling. And I become sleepy. The sound of the city begins to rise as I begin to fall into unconsciousness. Rocked by the energy escalating with each chirp, I invite my dreams into my bed. Finally, time rewarded as I sleep below the sun.