A little poem constructed while half-asleep. The kind that strings itself into being. I'm calling it a poetry attack.



There's a sound behind a sound,
A familiar voice
behind a new one,
A little trace of
an old story
a memory nestled in purgatory.

There's a whisper
layered in the wind,
A man singing in the bushes.
Cats swinging tails
slapping garden flies.
Time wishes.

There's a cold
enveloped in the heat,
A squirrel chewing things
A pair of eyes that doesn't blink
things think.