End of Friday
Lightyears away from where I am,
Ceaselessly soaring through boundless heights,
In waking, in slumber, despite perpetual occupation,
My dreams deftly weave realities in atomic detail,
Eager to divorce me from my own.
Consciousness teeters at the maw of the subconsious,
Tethers nothing but a strand of hair
That ties a square micrometer of the tip of my toes
To the solid, unforgiving ground,
I struggle to stay at least until
The end of this shift.
Waves Without Sounds 