Musings

Sleep allows the confines of thought the comfort of renewal.
Providing with haste the mannerisms of normality and much rationality in thought.
Though either the wise or the foolish seek the opposite of the above.
The lack of sleep is the source of true, blissful, evasion.
Unbeknownst to most who walk as a withered soul that has lost its merit.
As the state of slumber quietly protrudes through the skin of the feeble and weary,
In their quiet place of contemplation and such an overbearing state of consciousness,
The deeper they sink into the oblivion, black;
Until all at once they are drifting through nothing, and breathing the same.
Seeing all and perceiving what the fully conscious mind knows little of.
Soon they themselves will be left to all that could be explained only as bereft;
They themselves will blow in unison with the faded whistles of the wind.
Becoming one thing, though nothing; still everything.
Thoughts will find no rest for the meager and dreary.
Or at least this is so until the far off, though nevertheless coming, day when the wind will cease its blowing,
As will the being who chose to bite the hand that feeds; their mind, their fate.
This is the path to be chosen by those who walk in lines of snow and breath in thick air of golden brown,
The one way to seek refuge when all else will push them further down.