REM

I lie in the suffocating darkness
and keen to the bristling static,
be still,
I know they will come
in a swarm,
of whirling syllables.
The electricity recedes
to the tinnitus of words,
that whisper, shout and squeal
tumbling like shiny bricks
around my brow.
I keep still
to let them settle
here, on my chest,
there, my arms
needle-like anchors prickling
as they jostle for attention
pick me, pick me.
So light they can be inhaled
but not arrested,
nor contained,
if I am lucky
I can record their presence
then they are gone,
to the page,
captured, spent.



© Graham Sherwood 12/2015