Napping

savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown

 

and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots

 

be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche

 

and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post

 

though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours

 

and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding

 

following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere

 

and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking