twenty-eight leagues of sensation
and pressures, only pressures i feel,
repeating for every slow night.
and what is there to gain in the common?
in the common we find our selves
at one with the common uniqueness,
and to softly open our mouths in yawns
simultaneous, this drink the cup bares,
and the clouds reach out to take it away.
and what are bodies but houses for bones
and a few sentiments unwanted; free-
roaming souls apart from each other.
in twenty-eight years of twisted sleep
this mélange grew impatient as the waiting dark
thus the barren held fast, healed falsely.
— A. P.