for the thinkers.

We the people who speak too much, always raging against the tides pull,

Our mistress moon is too strong for us.

Its gravity is unseen and irresistible,

It affects cats, small birds and night spirits, who walk by stealthily in my dreams.

I wake up breathless, instantly forgetting any lucid dream that only nanoseconds before had sent my heart racing,

sweat dripping off my supine frame.

Night time should be calm, my boats passage untroubled.

No, I conjure up great storms, lurid episodes on some distant isle, Is heaven like this?

Indefinable, stripped of restraint, vaguely out of reach, altogether frustrating.

Minor details annoy you, my car won’t start, 

A phone rings when you’re in bed only to stop once you go to answer.

A slight split in my curtain, revealing a shaft of pure moonlight streaking across my legs,

Time hovers and only the heart soldiers on in labour, visions and snatches of daft music, vocal hooks, spinning round in my washing machine mind.

My alpha clashes with my omega, And the winner is never clear.

So when dawn is breaking, no rest gained only the exhaustion of spirit,

The price of thinking.

CP