Still Awake

The clock isn’t even ticking, and there is no subtlety in its passing. You can shadow me, I don’t mind, I’ve lost mine somewhere in the shifting sands of time, and we’ll wander this ghastly town tonight around, beyond, and past the disembodied moonlight illuminating lonely places. There is always rain, a thousand tinny voices of gutter-speak, drinking until the night is weak and no one hears the music if it’s playing. Someone, we know not who, is always awake, fluorescent lights blinking like the eyes of Cthulu, the elder ones indeed are even asleep, but not the whoever-you.

Muggy, the even tides, yet we’re all still reptiles, Olwen, cold-blooded whenever without who, and I only wanted the anima-lune smiling its Cheshire smile, though I found out soon why the lady of the water wields a sword. Excelsior, Henry, my name, and for it I cannot brake, for I know why the raven spake nevermore, and why the rook resembles the writing desk, and I’ve survived the light brigade and believed where hope was naught – and still, John, my name is not writ even in the waters,  nor ever be.

I, too, Robert, traveled an alternate, unused trail, and it ends on a ridge overlooking a great valley, each tree reaching towards the sky with prayers for light, with gilded rivers. Come away with me