Poetry

That In-Between Place

The cogs grind against

mushy cloud,

stirring the fluff into shape:

a solid form of wakefulness

that yearns to drift apart.

Bind it tight,

coil the springs up

with a stern twist of key;

barricade it against the cushy strands.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tock.

The alarm sings its unwelcome greeting.

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