Nette Onclaud, 6/12/26, All That Glass
ALL the flipping, tossing and turning, sand turning black then red at dawn; still yawning. The cock crowing; sun and moon avoid my half-open trance. My crescents ache from the webbed glass in the lacrimal corners. Shadows creep, reflections of my BOO. I try to force my opponent feet over head, so I can go back to bed. Goblin of a sandman is giggling, crooning creepy songs. Dusk breaks and I hit the Boogieman full force with his own container of grit; I pass out. As I awaken, with a blazing grin, I shine the hourglass, so peacefully at rest.
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