Ballet de guerre

Late at night and beneath the morning's subtle eye, I stare at a pixelated screen. The room is dim and my thoughts are luminated, two contradictory forces at war. They clash,an army of chaos, assualting the frontline of my febrile mind.

My fingers glide across a touchscreen keyboard,dancing lightly,a graceful ballet of lovers. Not too hard, not too soft, but just the right amount of pressure.
Because I must be careful, for when my musician's hand moves too quickly  this inept device cannot keep up. If only.....

If only it were you beneath my wistful tips.

And after poetry falls wet from within  enkephalin orgasms, my trembling body and painted lids grow somnolent. I perch quietly close and rest myself against your phantom form where only warmth and rythym can console me. Your voice is a sweetly scented breeze; I taste it on the wind and it whispers only beauty.

The battle is lost, nothing more than wounded soldiers remain in the
afterglow. Exhausted but too stubborn to retreat to bed, I drowse yet continue to type.
Behind the veil of sleep, love consumes all and these are the words that were written with failing hands:

You make me smoke in here
I'm too tired to cook
I need a pharmacy
Well I guess I can.....

A sleepwalker lost in an entrancing imprisonment of a dream, my own fragmented thoughts were revealed to me in the lines of a disorganized verse.