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