insomnia always has a reason

setting moon with  trees
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down?
2 Henry IV (3.1.8-9)
to sink
she sank --
simple, see?
black silk rippled only once
her rapid descent
a clicking trot --
from flippers
to feathers
and now
to feet;
toes in muck
she strains to walk
the box maze lit  
with golden tea-cups;
at the center
the maître d'
serves her flies
she spits out nails  
that spin like lightening bugs;
she slaps and runs
but can’t escape
midnight moon’s final jest
and with a gasp she comes to wake.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on. . . 
The Tempest (4.1.168-169)
Day 14 of NaPoWriMo encouraged a bit of dream play. 


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