I have no memory of sleep save for the dreaming parts, but

have I awakened this morning from a dreamless sleep?

setting my feet to the floor

I rise with caution to insure stability.

at times sleep retreats slowly like a conquered 19th century army;

at other times, it scoots in a mad rush,–– 

like an unjust monarch on the run from his just beheading.

sleep is only as mortal as its dreams; its borderless pathology

hanging by its fingertips at the portal through which

running water delivers its fatal wound.

but even the passage of time can't always clarify

the always restless, always uncharted roadway of the dream