Poetry K-Hole 5: Hypnos Lost.

Hypnos Lost.

Visions slit our lids and peel
them open to pass the hours,

festooned over the rungs
as supernal sentries,
we are denied entry.

When preludes of a day,
strained
through the stray notes,

hitch in
on a fleet of wings,

they shiver
through the vertebrae of repose –

rousing to a sick revival,
every other function.

But we – wreathed – linger
and perfect the art of existence

by expanding into the full fury
of our innovation,

and without breaking our shape,
we strike at the horizon –

while the departed lie still
in apery of dying.

– Sommer Cullingford