when the sun retires, my mind
restarts the engine of
imagination and dares to
tease the eyelids
estatically arousing dreams into
realism to where we rise. . .and
stark naked we write things, and we

Listen to our heart of hearts
Obeying each urge to
Vent ourselves clean of all things
Everyone else says are

nonsense to the logically man, but we
orate we create while others sleep. . .
telling ourselves and ancestors of our
experience, as crying tongues break loose

© 2006, cynth’ya lewis reed
All rights reserv’d