The turning
The cranking wheels of my subconscious.
The voices
The madness
The ever-present engine running this factory.
I’m too excited to sleep.
Or is it too awake.
To many dreams going on in the daylight
To warrant closing my eyes.
Perhaps it’s all just whirlwinds;
A tornado of shoulds and motion
Swirling in the distance,
Eating up the hours.
What is time anyhow?
Who gave away all his secrets.
Which arrow points to the hour
The hour I waited for you.
Too many sad poems about riddles
That never find their mystery.
Too many verbs without good solid nouns
To lift them up into eternity.
Too many lines torn apart by spaces.
Too many spaces.
All in all it’s just a dream;
Some distant wondering.
Some forgotten who.
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