My flesh is lying prostrate in this bed;
My mind is sparking like a wire stripped;
The night is trembling on the knife-point’s edge
Of mutating to morning.
I feel that, in this inability
To sleep, to even find the doors of
Morpheus,
I’m traipsing down the primrose path
That leads direct to madness…
And in these suburbs of my sanity,
I find the most intriguing inspirations.
Ambition, vaulting plans, incredible
Decisions made about the future Earth,
The fates of unborn peoples, and
The likelihood of passing through the stars.
The matrix of my musing thought
Expands in ever-wid’ning, breathless laps,
Encompassing foundations for the Good,
And laughing at presumptions of the wise.
My soul is soaring, seraph-like,
Illuminated and but semi-sane –
How dare you call this sleepless body mine,
One hundred sixty pounds
And without wings?
-
Author:
themerrypapist (
Offline) - Published: March 2nd, 2018 13:44
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 53
- Users favorite of this poem: Ecelis20, Lorna, OrlandoFurioso.
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Comments3
When I see this, I think of the really classic poetry. I've got not words, because this is really outstanding!!!
You are a soul with wings!
You are a soul with wings! I'm trying to figure out how to mark you as a "favorite poet" but can't so far!
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