AprilPoWriMo 2

The wake up ghost
spent all night searching
for the next dream
out of the shadows

to stay under heavy eyelids
mind recognizing shapes
occasional stories
materializing from the ceiling

as if sleeplessness were
the prescription for existence
bearing down upon
the lightness of synapses

what if dreams were the way
whoever dreams us tries
to make sense of whatever
wakefulness appears to be

translating echo into image
like we do all day long
repeating the immediate past
attempts to find a moment

unmediated to ourselves
dreaming of silent sleep