Slumber of Guilt
by Odin Roark

We all know it,
whether first dreams
or last gasps before sunrise,
we know the night-whisperers.

How subtle their beginnings,
preying on our relaxed drift,
that short time of remembering today,
imagining tomorrow.

How little control we have
over these shadowed experiences,
these realms of repression
kept at bay during the day,
unwillingly set free at night
to roam our sleep.

We toss and turn with ghost-like disturbances,
attempt to relax, shake them off,
their purpose served,
revealing a repeat
of our closeted fears
perhaps not apparent
in a conscious yesterday,
but destined companions
for a hyper-conscious today.

Through the fog…

We spring into the starting blocks,
imagining coffee,
croissant,
smiles to the doorman,
pleasant nods to cantankerous neighbors,
we’re free to shout above the night whispers
as the sounds grow louder,
convincing us we're awake,
edgy from the sleepless night,
less naïve,
more attentive,
less than who we believe we never were,
but were told we must be.

Eyes flicker…

We are here,
serving REM’s waning moments,
where identity vies for position.

It’s the singular moment of freedom.

We run into the yard,
imagine ripping off our clothes,
dreaming of effrontery all around,
even though we are in our custom cage,
shaking the cross-thatched guilt of mistakes,
the imprisonment we created,
the lack of self-love we insist on holding to.

But…

The clamor of an alarm raises us upright
as we momentarily recall,
how tenacious this persistence,
this ever so quiet subliminal power
continuing to make our dream’s life sentences
void of parole, reprieve, mercy,
offering only night-whisperings,
that strange redemptive tease
where our inner-voice
finds itself mute,
unwilling to change,
refusing to speak up for,
chance beginnings of a new reality.

Oh, how we yearn...

But nothing seems to drown out
the incessant murmuring threats,
allowing us to awaken from sleep,
and rise beyond our slumber of guilt.