Sometimes I think about the interface of life
And how sometimes we seem like a deadened
Terrarium museum exhibit
And then sometimes the overall enterprise
Seems to breathe with fire and issue
Corridors of ingenuous authenticity,
.
With sleep undeniably falling in that latter category as
We could easily be continually functioning droids
That required no departure from consciousness for reparation
But we are made like this
Because that is what is real —
.
The qualitative nature of thoughts
And the readied disposition
Given life by a dark unconscious
.
And the tapestry of all of us
Infused by dreams,
Which sometimes seem like just an anchor
From concerned parties trying to
Recommune with us in the afterlife.