//mypoeticside.com/

Nicholas Browning

Counting Sheep

Gently dragging the finger, gratify the scripture,
Receded but not lost.
Traipsing nostalgia\'s views, vicissitude often skews,
From reflections that wisdom had sought.

 

Weathered hands of scribe\'s profession,
Embrace luminance within its fiction.
Inadequate comfort, hollow in tone,
Statues turned malform effigies.
Of revenue without nourishment;
A lullaby becomes a eulogy.

 

Decadence perennial, existence that only ruptures.
Rived bonds, calescent verse;
For that, this Orb suffers.

 

Dementia acuminates, senses deafen,
Hieroglyphs comprise the wall.
Foreign in language, nebulous inception;
Yearning to be recalled.

 

This slumber implores to halt the process by which it thinks.
Voices overlap, armistice out of question,
Sanity thrown to the brink.
Wearied spirit, inanimate life,
\"They\" tire of counting sheep.