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by Thomas F. Wylie

Alone with pen
quickly grasped
in the early hour;
complete dark outside, house still;
dashing out words to
capture the still recent
evening dream
that fades with each passing moment.

Wanderer of this earth,
carrier of thoughts, images,
fears, faces, and events
collected, observed, digested,
read, spoken and absorbed
disconnectedly over a lifetime;
which among these
shall appear,
shall erupt
in a night-time journey?
Impossible to know
impossible to predict
impossible to escape
only to experience
and to seek, however meekly,
a scratching-out of
images, faces, feelings, and
sweat-soaked thoughts
crushed together
at the impact moment
between night-time ending and day-light beginning,
eternal second between asleep and awake;

Spilling out
pieces, parts, and morsels
here and there;

Which are mentally collectable?
From me to me,
from a mixture of people and experiences,
known and unknown,
or perhaps imagined?
How to make-sense,
from the wordless remnants of
night-time stabbings?
Often with repeat offenders;
people, events, fears appearing
over and over again
like an unwanted guest who never departs;
showing, being, appearing fresh-like
in nocturnal solitary confinement.

Copyright © 2011 by Thomas F. Wylie

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