Slumber (Prose Poetry)

I dream of colors who know each other by name. They leap upon one another, establishing a dominance only known to the kingdom outside civilization. The reactant rocks and emblems of walks combine into a singular emotion, and it does not rest. The body lies in slumber while the mind sits in a corner to wait, a corner of itself, watching the proceedings of its own uncertainty. Warmth is present, but fails to pierce the skin. Lacking any oceans, the heat folds instead of holding, lapping at a flesh inconsiderate of what it houses.

Singular stretching reaches a goal. Symbolic wishes push away action. If one is to wish upon a star, they should seek the dust within. Fairness is only present in the binding, everlasting battle between the blanketing Sun and the stripping space that surrounds. Greet the cacophony of yellow to red as you would the white space between the blues of rest. These words are easy to consume, yet altogether difficult to digest.

I am the first to know when light should linger.


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