Between Sleep, Waking Dreams

I lie still in my bed,
Drawing out the calm,
Between sleep
and the waking dream,
Sinking slowly into thought.
White little bugs nibble,
Tearing me away gently,
Just at the edge of my mind,
And the humor of my eyes,
Fraying my edges like old paper,
Slowing the endless wave,
Of neurons and and memories,
None of which are mine.
Tell me, little bugs,
What memories are sweeter?
The thick cake of despair,
Or the dripping hearts of pleasure?


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