Wearily I wake from pounding the pillowed pavement of my dreams,
My ears ringing with the conversations of phantoms and the wisdom of angels.
Nightly my tired spirit wanders the halls of lonely recollections,
A vain, fruitless search for the lost aspects of my joy,
Chasing the whispered voices of those cried out for in the dark.
The body craves its release after day’s dreary end of toil and trammel
But the mind refuses that respite and plunders the quiet hours,
Shackled to that capstan whose tight circle of repetition
Weighs anchor in preparation for another night’s restless passage.
Where is this never tiring sea of false leads and running gales?
The spindrift of quickly fading dreams leaves its damp reminder
Upon the pillow of my nightly labours, evidence of where I’ve been
But seldom writing down the content of that book
Read only by eyes closed shut to the light of day.
