In the Haze of Sleep
by W.A. Fite
The sleep deprived nature of my days spin quickly to thoughts of restless nights, awakened by the slightest of happenings and sometimes through the lack of such. Flicks of false rain trickling in a loop of a sound-machine. The brown haze of burned up sod speaking in a voiceless sigh as if to beckon me back out into the yard…again.
Sure, duty and recklessness rarely extend themselves during the same times, yet as opposites, they also rarely collide.
Why do my bushes die when I water them so fervently? Why do some men live when they treat their bodies to rough violences and self-degradation?
These are the questions that wind into that flicker rained loop. And as the windy drops grow more false with wakened thought, so do my boundless days.
