Half Awake

Sure. Imaginary, ordinary, inbetween.
Sure. Just right. The days wink by
like the twinkle of stars haunting
each passing night, passing week,
steadily passing life; a life that
suddenly seems more real, more
precious, more sudden, more
stout, more important, more,
more, so much more. Life. Sure.

The black sky seems so empty,
so distant, so vast and vacant;
but suddenly so heavy, too much
for one man to shoulder night
after night. The days seem so
much shorter, twelve months
isn't enough; let alone four
weeks or seven days or
twenty four hours or
sixty seconds. Always more.

Sure. It seemed so easy, so
little effort to watch it all
fade past; crossing out days
on a calender, setting alarms,
daylight saving switch twice
a year, and on and so forth.
Routine. Sure. But it's crushing
me now; everything I try to tenderly
grasp suddenly too much to swallow.

The sun goes down and up and
down again; resting and starting
and stopping and pitterpattering
like a slow heart or footsteps or a
child humming a tune. The nights feel
painstakingly short and the days
march on endlessly. The sun
and the moon become one and
bleed into each other across the sky.

Black becomes blue and down
becomes up. Flowers frown
in the summer snow while
the winter heat wave welts
the front lawn. My murky
reflection in a puddle stares
off to the side impatiently. As if
days meant so much more. Sure.