I lie in bed, restless, daydreaming of sleep
while thoughts I haven't had evade me like flies.
A train goes by, whistling, breaking the silence;
but otherwise midnight is due in no time,
and I can't resist wishing for old secrets
to occupy my absent mindings a while.
I like to think that daydreaming is worthwhile,
but I wonder at the thoughts that haunt my sleep—
breaking my promises (like keeping secrets)
would startle the otherwise complacent flies,
but who can truly say that they resist time?
I grasp at words to occupy the silence—
it's hard to quantify a thing like silence;
these modern mysteries keep me up a while.
What else is a clock keeping aside from time?
My body would prefer it for me to sleep,
counting as each wingéd minute truly flies
beyond my grasp, these corporeal secrets.
Why is it so hard to bury some secrets
while other mysteries founder in silence?
We are constantly brushing aside the flies,
ignoring the stench of our own bodies, while
mentally counting the hours of missed sleep
and wishing we could just exist beyond time.
We are worms that bury ourselves within time,
hoping that our pasts yield no other secrets;
in this regard, we are constantly asleep,
ignoring the power of complete silence
in a world of noise. We watch the hours while
themselves away, buzzing like so many flies.
We imagine ourselves as the bird who flies
free of the constraints that make us yield to time—
holding ourselves in high regard, all the while
weighted down to the earth by complete secrets;
we swore only to the whole world our silence,
and thus, wasting away from our lack of sleep...
The flies hum like certain secrets in our heads,
but give them time and we'll hear silence again.
After a while, we'll remember how to sleep.