Midnight Half

A poem about a writer’s endless dreams

A writer never sleeps we rest only in dreams sandman metaphors and octopi-arm allegories Those physiological similies infuse our bones, calcium bits that thin cellular layer between reality and fantasy carbon bonds and neuron webs between the lonely hunt and the pining kiss. A writer is only half in tendons, pre-frontal cortices that corpus callosum bridge. Between art and logic wrapped in blood and skin, skeletal forms always chattering, The other part, in the cells of words Tendon plots, and gray matter themes neuronal muses that sing For poetry is truth confounded with itself This is why we never sleep.

Because writing is but a dream trembling fingertips upon fragile aching keys A ravens croak, eyes of ink that see those poppy fields murmuring gateways to other whens symphony of crickets trill and fair symphonic blends of voices ensnare We spend hours in cryptic thought excavating, bones past relics of dinosaurs that awake alas! That is why we never sleep.

Because we chase truths across wonderland galaxies battling demons and monsters unseen painting pointillistic concepts to fill hungry interstellar voids on tomorrow’s canvas to store A thousand enigmas we call stories a million moments lost between fleeting realms of mind and heart doors without handles rooms within us, planets flung for as we climb new worlds peaks astride pure of essence inscrutability to let you weep with us. This is how we love. This is how we breathe. This is why we never sleep.

Yet we’re always dreaming laying out realities warm and cozy, kind and keen in timeless hours split forever between the word the world that Midnight half dream.

© Bradley J Nordell 2020

The title “Midnight Half” was a phrase that Melinda A Smith and I created during one of our brainstorming sessions. So, I dedicate this poem to Mel, who is a brilliant writer that weaves the most beautiful physiological metaphors.