6/29/12

Sleep
By Steven Ortega


I’ve heard him speak of
a place he loves to go

beneath the curtain eyelid

Beyond the REM

just past the electric storms
of synapses

Although we’re machines of
flesh

I know where he is

the grass is blue

the sky is green

in his open eyes,
the sun shines forth

His favorite place is a
parallel kiss to an open
mind

he speaks of this place
of his sleep

where I cannot go and see
it with him

where I cannot even see

If I cannot see him
and his field of stars

I do not want to see at all.


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I'm a a Southern Californian living in the wonderful New England. I'm a writer of poems and short stories with an interest in photography and video blogging.