The mind whirls and the thoughts race,
flowing through the consciousness.
A white-water rapid of imaginings,
streaming over waterfalls of circumstance.
All the things you want to say, the truths you want to tell.
You know this time, you know it well.
Another night when sleep is a memory,
a nightmare lost in a forest of dreams.
An illusion woven into tangled branches,
thoughts like leaves blown on Autumn gales.
The dreams you wish to share, the rage you wish to vent.
You know this time, your discontent.
First world problems cycle as you turn endlessly,
every minor detail magnified tenfold in the dark.
Every sinew of your body shaking in disdain,
every jangling nerve playing tunes inside your head.
The pages of your mind hide scripts never to be seen.
You know this time, words scream unsaid.
Finally succumbing to the sanctity of peace,
till whispers in the dawn draw you from your reverie.
The other side of morning draws you to the surface,
to face another day of mindless whisperings.
Another day scratching a living whilst others gloat,
hiding within their sacred towers of self-righteousness.
Staying silent for the fear of vitriolic retribution,
stumble through another day on fractured eggshells.
Retreating behind the fortress walls you have built,
to the safety of silence and a blanket of dreams.
Dreams of peace abandoned as you await another morn.
The peace that never comes, the time that comes again
© Fergus Martin