CARTOGRAPHY OF SLEEP
Fiction is a theatre within the mind;
Two layers down, disbelief unwinds.
My mind’s a rusted gate that groans,
Locks echo phantom steps of bones.
Half-remembered embers flicker and sigh;
Plots in slumber leap, collide, and fly.
The heart becomes a trembling compass,
Pulled by whispers across night’s atlas.
Hope is a fragile bird, born from ruins,
Its wings sewn from silver-threaded tunes.
Reveries are rivers, sometimes trash, sometimes gold,
Flowing through the mind’s cathedral, cold.
Nightmares illuminate the human fear;
Monsters recoil, yet terror feasts on me.
Ink-spilled twilight drifts through thought’s stream,
Lantern-ships sail silently on visions’ gleam.
The waking world welds fractures with sign,
Yet dream-gold lingers, silver-threaded, mine.
Nocturnal wandering walks near the feet of all,
A universal totem of the human call.
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