In the moments just before you drift off to sleep,
as you dangle gently over your dreams,
and yet still gripping the edge of reality,
there is often a voice.
A voice calling out so quietly,
and as your fingers lose their grip,
I should write that down…
and then plunge in the depths of the abstract visions and reiterations of life.
And when you surface for air,
you wonder where did the words go?
Do they join the circus of the missing socks
and write stories and songs for the soles of the knitted?
Or perhaps they slide through the wormholes of time,
falling in and out of space,
landing, misplaced and foreign, in a time long ago,
becoming Gods in their own right and worshiped as holy scriptures?
Or do they wait,
hidden in the cupboards of our soul,
as tiny mice hidden from your searching hand,
brushing them yet not grasping,
Until all is emptied out,
and then with much rejoicing,
we dance over pennies.