Untamable Sleep (a Poem)

O sleep, why dost thou leave me so?
Wherefore dost thou go
When I need thee so dearly?
Thou art like a silken scarf,
That slips from the hold of my fingers.
Thou art like the stars
That seem so beautiful and near
Yet cannot be reached.
Why must I search for thee so?
Why must I coax thee unto me so persistently?
I call thy name, and thou turnest thine head away.
Thou hast the desires
Of another man’s heart in thy bondage.
O sleep, return thou once more unto me again,
That I may rest in thine arms once more.
O wherefore art thou,
Untamable sleep?

This is something I wrote quite some time ago, and today I thought it fit to publish here.

Questions of the Mind

Tattooed on the interior of my skull is a question. It’s a very long question, and it doesn’t ask with words — in fact, it’s more of a curiosity, a desire. I beleive that all matter is a code. When a human talks to another human he uses a code. When she gets annoyed that I generalized all humans with that two-letter word more properly used to describe only men, she is following a code. But what is the key?

Perhaps there are multiple keys, or perhaps there is a key of keys to unlock all codes. Some people seem adept at picking locks. To me, it’s a mystery. Everything is a mystery, an enigma.

I too act according to a code; but I don’t know the key to even my own. Animals follow a simpler code and are more easy to understand. Most of the time they are logical, although mostly in a narrow-minded way. But people … What a bunch of confusion! He wants something from her, goodness knows what … But she says she doesn’t want something that she truthfully does. And here, a rock that the emotions of others splash upon, am I.

Why do people feel? Why love? What logical explanation is there? It seems the only thing worth doing to me, is to question. And as long as I question, I cannot love. The more I seek the less I feel. What if everything we think matters doesn’t, and all that we think are heresies are not? Fools we would seem.

I know not what I write, for the question in my head does not ask with words. Words merely hint at it. Words lower it to the level of paper and pen. Type and print. Dots and dashes. On and off.

The switch — the switch has clicked. Maybe there is a key to the code. Maybe it’s us.