Napnapped

Once, I was broken, becoming manifold —

the solvent ambience enfolding me

in absolving transience, untold to me

ever before or since.

An insular innocence,

involuntary amnesty

which hardened again

as I fought against it,

harshening its hold.

But as I relinquished control

and its toll of vanity,

all became moldable.

The profanity

of reason, however, soon stole

into that space,

attempting to make sense

of that intangible, ecstatic encasing,

that unmanageable genesis of unmaking...

in their arrogance, thought and action

were erasing

the pure sleep of nothingness,

painting over it, in broad and brutal

strokes,

a gaudy return to frugal

creation,

with all its I's, me's and mine's.

Even Existence's finest designs

are overshadowed by that feeling of unfeeling,

which I'd spend the rest of my days

slowing disintegrating to replicate,

hoping each new hole in me would elucidate

some method of reversion.

But backpedaling this perversion

and going forever back to sleep

is much more complicated

a task to undertake

than to be rudely shaken awake.