Oneiro

I'm not crazy.

Hazy days that bleed into one another, striated skies and mugs of coffee.
Restless nights spent waiting in vain for the sun that
finally
you are the elder of.
Walking in the weak rays of the youngest one.
An usurper, a nocturnal creature
a silent (alright, giggling) witness to the intangible and the immutable.

I'm not crazy.

The image still hurts my eyes.
Sleep-heavy, world-weary,
bent backs and shoulders and necks
and twisted limbs
and friendly strangers
and the probabilities lined up to favour a fool
who outstayed his welcome in the waking world.
I'm not mad.
I'm just supremely, blissfully lucky.

I wish that I could sleep.
I wish that I could count the sheep
that shuffle past my door
and stop with soft bleating
to implore me, their sovereign lord
to cast back the night
and greet the great young sun once more.

I am a cat on hot sand.
I am a butterfly flapping
my iridescent, fragile wings
against a glass jar as strong as steel
as strong as bone
as strong as night and day and tides and times.
I am an uncharted place
a forgotten face
and a mistimed note.
But sometimes I'm a charming guy.

I am a sieve for all the world's words.
I hold back the useless
I give voice to the useful.
I'm never empty, never full.
I use time to my advantage
and I'll never - never! -
dare stand still.

She is something else, but she shan't be covered here.
It isn't that I don't have words, but I am full of fear,
for she walks paths more radiant than I,
but walks with me
because I'm a charming guy
sometimes.

Dragon's blood is burned in droves.
Feline grace is fettered in my wake.
I have an eternal thirst to slake,
and I will not be denied.

But eventually I must fall, and dream
and walk the paths and ways
immutable, unseen.
And that's just fine,
and that's alright,
and that's just fine with me.

I'm not crazy.