HOSHANA
The hand balled in a fist, the noise of the night, since birth the lull of sleep, a conquering enemy, cruelly rains down empty images, spongy cortexes, not awake to experience yet somehow aware, it seems entirely cheap, darkly shrouded cowardice, hidden, fraudulent, a violation of an unwritten, unheard of trust, and how this is possible and why this happens are not questions but phrases to remember when the head rolls, tumbling over marbled steps and corridors, offed by the swift steel of nod ― I cannot fight it and I must not fear it, the battle is the war, the war is life, and the battle is abysmal, empty, imagineless, no, I mustn’t fear, because the pull will take me, it will take me down and pull me places that I, defenseless and vast, have not yet asked to go ― praise the heavy gray clouds, for they give way to rain, the pillow, the sheet, the blanket, a blank slate it is not, carte blanche given the subconscious mind, the free nightly ride, costly only in its exuberance, draped in fake hair, the eyes grow wide, with finger pressed to lips, the silence of sunrise.