Conscious Dreams Never Sleep

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 conscience 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’s darkness,
shutting their eyes to see in other dimensions
become painters,
composers,
poets,
closed eyelids that never sleep,
becoming instead the rasp of a file,
honing words into melodious colors,
scratching with pencil,
brush,
baton,
a feast the famished soul consumes
by small bites,
minute chewing,
digesting yesterdays
into tomorrows,
allowing creative 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 corruptions
carry the tasteless bland across
barren landscapes once alive,
now but a rebirth of left-overs
the dumpster remains of another murderous century…
needing to dream with consciousness