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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This deals with Dreams, Halucinations and the perception of Reality.

A strange poem by all accounts.

Submitted: January 15, 2010

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Submitted: January 15, 2010



He could not sleep
Or so he thought,
He lay on his bed
Staring at the patterns
On the ceiling
As headlights went flying
past the window.

A deathly wail of a siren
Cut through the silence of the room
Mingling with the only sound,
The soft tick-tock
Of the clock
on the wall.

Another noise came from the window,
A soft Rat-a-tat,
As rain came pattering down
Smacking into the window
Trying to reach the tired mind
Laying torpid in the bed.

As the hands slid
To six O'clock
A cog shifted in his mind.
He decided to get up
And go outside.
He wanted to find
What was keeping him awake
So he could get some sleep.

He stumbled through the front door,
Into the cold embrace of the rain.
Above him faint shards of light
Shone through the blanket of Cloud.
To the East shone the first
Few optimistic rays of a new dawn.

All around him
Early morning commuters were shuffling about
Like lazy zombies
In some horror film.
He looked around him
At the towering grey buildings above
And the Sleepy street below.

He paused in his pursuit of sleep
And decided to cross the road
In the hope of something new
On the other side.
As he stepped out onto the black
Tarmac, a headlight came speeding
Out of nowhere.

He had no time to react,
His mind was trapped for ever
In the clutches of apathy
Working half the speed for no pay.
The two lights were right in front of him,
And then...

He woke up in his bed,
His clock read six O'clock.
The rain was hammering on the window,
Still trying to get in.
He couldn't get back to sleep,
So he decided to go outside
To see if the answer was out there.

But he forgot to ask himself something,
What if the car
Was real this time?

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