It’s just a wakeful state of mind.
Satirical self esteem minuted,
to minute breadth:
blessed defence is a crazed offence,
paying lip service to unknown events
of convalescence, now it’s less sense,
his eyes filled with diagnosis,
murdering my senescence.
Sleep perchance to…but I’m counting sheep
trying to revitalise sumptuous, slumberous deeps,
not knowing which dreams to keep:
foghorn; trumpet; trombone.
Angel spits, and splits soul from body,
playing the perfect melody,
set on repeat.
Nonetheless nonplussed, trust.
Must. Kerb. The. Lust. Whilst Archers
from the moon shoot at us.
Marchers borne of the same hare?
Hatters don’t care for it much,
making mistakes solicits predictable templates,
and tiny tempers lead us astray.