I write my best work whilst fast asleep, but
often lose good lines to my subconscious.
Thoughts locked in a mind that securely shut,
a guarded coffer to hold my conscience.
On short warm days succumbed to stupor fits
lethargy lingers longer whilst awake.
Rescued dormant phrases from slumber’s grip;
these existent latent words flash opaque.
For a moment my madness is contained
in lucid dreams of so-called normal;
a hypnotic trance of a life mundane
a well-earned rest from the paranormal.
Throughout the night I dream in metered verse
but when I wake, my memory’s a curse.