I was not yawning, I was not sleeping.
All that could be done was write a sonnet.
Attempted to get closer to dreaming
and feeling warmth like a sweet cabaret.
The experience started off wrong.
Saw a dinosaur dancing with a tree
I trembled as I sang my wretched song.
The tree looked over and laughed! Laughed at me.
Surrealism has a funny way
of being and existing around us.
It's bizarre, it's pleasant, and here to stay
regardless of how much you bitch and cuss.
Winter bleeds inside, smothering it all.
Poetry rises up: brings down the wall.
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