I think I was supposed that night to write a plot
I didn’t write when opportunity came knocking;
drowned in a younger man’s dreams – unaware
the celestial vehicle waits no more than a heart-
beat between stops, enthused by an assurance
it would not leave me despairing after answers
sought to existential connivance – where truth
matters less than substance or modes of belief.
I did not take my seat, was careless and upbeat
about the next conveyance, boasted how easily
I’d reach the destination. Thus I stayed asleep,
played somnambulant tunes to rhythms of the
spheres – believed I was within a modicum of
succeeding. Now I’m awake again, and waiting...
© 26 November 2007, I. D. Carswell