beautiful insomniac

night whispers only of featherthoughts
unlike the gravid dreams of day that fall and rot
its putrid fruit lies open-faced to the sun and swells a mundane gray
in the oily darkness, the moon floats like a dusty pearl that you could grab
if you wanted to (but you don't)
you'd rather wade in the sky because dark waters are better for drowning in
and a lifetime of breath is not nearly as precious
as one second of wind-strangled inspiration (only sun-cloaked silence kills)
here you can mourn tomorrow's bleak sunrise while the world still slumbers on
in ignorance and in health (they wait for another socrates to persecute)
and the stars comb your velvet yesterdays through windowscreens that sigh of
(to escape the cage of dawn!) silver-streaked memories, they slip away