Tired warps the willow into a worldly sign.
An illusion, a metaphysical delusion.
A sleepless crime.
I can’t see for not shedding a tear.
The dryness irritates my eyes where I refuse to miss her.
I am complete.
The world turns the wrong way around as the wind spins in harmony.
It doesn’t blow.
A confined sense of security, surreal.
A bird pecks at the branch and half of Italy is gone.
I must sleep before I wake, or something.
I dream of unimportance and the importance of being unimportant and, you guessed it.
It’s not important.
A sliver of hope and light breaks through partially opened curtains and a closed mind to announce the world has gone.
Copyright G.P Williamson 2015.