The shudders first begin within the mind, in that cotton-mired lobe
Near the front, where sometimes elation and apprehension abide.
Alert again, the eye traces the slowly gathering flames
Along the wall
As the rumbling gropes the ear, scratching and imploring.
Again sleep flies as my mind, before the cleansing,
Stabs its first and greatest power
Toward the mess of orange and darkness that
Springs to life and identical complexity before
My young and spiraling imagination.
My imagination! A lens through which faces and buildings
Demons and otherlings,
Stories and chaos,
Bind themselves together, entangled
Driving sleep - that shelter from the fury,
The cease of instilling order to the absurd - yet farther
From me than the unrealities I spin.
And only by abating, by letting irrelevance be,
By letting be that accidental past
Which writes itself as a twirling mess of tangled branches,
Depicted as shadows illuminated by cars
(Which have illustrious histories of history themselves)
- by letting and releasing and respecting while forgetting -
Abstracting.
I could sleep.
And I would awake, to work the consensual order once more.
Ben
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