Dreams Never Sleep
by Odin Roark

It is known by many names,
this force that sleeps by day,
strategically echoing its restless percussion by night.

Buried in crumpled sheets and pounded pillow,
some listen carefully,
others flutter their eyelids casually,
distrusting sleep's desire to have us naked,
really naked.

REM knows
what delta can only imagine,
and theta deems unfathomable.

And so it goes,
those unable to see in daytime darkness,
shutting their eyes to see clearly,
becoming painters,
composers,
poets,
sleepers that never sleep,
becoming instead the rasp of a file,
honing words into melodious colors,
creating with pencil,
brush,
baton,
a feast the famished soul consumes
by small bites,
minute chewing,
digesting yesterdays
into tomorrows,
allowing courses once filling
to become but appetizers,
preparing anew mind's palate
for feasts yet to come.

Hunger's vision awaits,
while scraps served on tables of molten rock
carry the tasteless bland across
barren landscape once alive,
now but a rebirth of left-overs,
the deserts of another murderous century
needing to dream.