Redundant

 
The nights mean less and less. Not even
the patience to read or walk. You're hoping
this is how it is in the brew of a dream.
It is a kind of chaos; a thin beam of day
under the door brightening the whole room,
when all you want is sleep.
 
These are the nights where the woods invite you
to sit with the roots and open your arteries.
By the time the moon gets to the clearing you are
already ghosting. A statue. A fright.
 
And why not? Redundancy is already claiming you.
You'll never beat the world into submission, but the thesis
of a dream
against an unrelenting emptiness is enough
hope to pull you in. Just to make sure
you have the right determination on that night
you decide to let the rotten moon see itself
in the shine of your knife, and the soulless glint
of your eyes.