After the midnight mark on a Sunday

my thoughts 

are creatures of the night.

unexpected visitors, hidden in feathers 

and down.

the mind begins to wander

as the body rests,

the present disappears

while the future manifests.

in thoughts, in dreams,

reality permeated by

a sudden amalgamation of moments

that have yet to occur.

as much as you may battle with the wave,
you can never defeat it.

five nights later and here you are.

but not really.

REM

A dream
(within a dream)
Sleeping in consciousness
Prolonging the manifestations of the mind
and body; this is where happiness lies
No - no - it should not end
It is far too soon
to be awake -
Too late
.

A thing of sheer beauty

Sunday music doesn't get any better than this:

The Waste Land

IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,  
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
         A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers.  As he rose and fell
He passes the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
        Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.