Slow. Awakening.
Half unencumbered by sleep.
Dreams in the pseudo light,
lay fuzzy in the lilac dawn –
cooked up in a kitchen of unconsciousness,
they emerge unrecognizable even to the chef.
Stretch memories on the rack of your mind,
to see if the truth will out.
Pieces of a mish-mash dream,
float separately just beyond reach.
Meanings remain meaningless.
(Did anyone ever get anything real from torture?).
When you can only remember half the trials of your night,
(then) there’s not enough evidence to convict you,
is there?
Corpus delicti

Slow. Awakening.
Fully unencumbered by sleep.
Greet the day and leave the unfinished in the ether,
leave the half life dream to decay over time.
A radium cur(i)e.