It is a
lonely
lazy
Sunday afternoon

Light
and sound
is muted
and dull

I can only hear
the hum
the buzz
of the afternoon haze

We are all drifting
in
and out
of consciousness

Surfing silver
dream waves
across the

D r e a m s p h e r e
Stratosphere
A t m o s p h e r e

Across the universe

In verse.

Inverse.

Writing a song
with no melody

Only words
connected by skeins of

IDEAS

Abstract thoughts
and barely-there
strands of
half-formed consciences.

We are all drifting in
with the tide
of our daydreams

What is
and is not real

Treads gently
as if on eggshells
the thin line
that seperates

Life as we know it

and life as it is.

Are we all delusional?
disillusioned?
dengue-ridden pus-frothy
skeletons
of our former selves

My lazy sunday afternoon philosophy
never made much sense to anyone but me

Especially when it is
inverse

In verse

At least poetry
doesn't need to make
grammatical sense.