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‘Subconsciously conscious’ The clock ticks, the hands that caressed Moving in time with the sleeper’s chest. Cradled head on pillow, they express A road to recovery from emotional excess. As paradoxical as it may seem, The mind buzzes amid the gleam Of processing, categorizing, storing of information That leads the lone traveller to this bustling station. The subconscious does not sleep a wink, Like the train driver waiting for signals to blink. Faces all ablur in a stop-motion picture; Places: empty framework structures. But when the sleeper becomes detached, From the corporeality where they were attached, They discover that Dreams speak this dialect – A foreign tongue one must not neglect. The Eyes spy on the conscious mind Extrapolating intricacies to which it was blind. From a freckled nose from the sun’s sweet kiss To a subtly, scathing glare from an arch nemesis. A distant car alarm blares from the street, Causing the sleeper to retreat From the mind battle which begged surrender; Upon the pillow immobile, remembered. The sleeper recovers after momentary distraction, Lulled slowly, yet, gently into eternal abstraction, Chased by obsessive thoughts and sensations Bubbling in the slow boiling pot of manifestations.
