But first she must plant the seed.

Sleep is an occupation I wish to take no part in.
I fear the dreams where disaster is conceived.
Waking up to subconscious drip paintings; no-
Mother, I'm not bleeding, it's cherries and gloss.
Only fruit of mind and watered-down media of soul.
Promising me another long night of dread.
From this experience I have not extracted.
Not anything remotely useful or divine. No signs.

No signs that this love- this life- has begun or end.
Defences brought down and I hate, I hate.
The foreign conceptions crawling upon my skin.
Besieged to the invasion, come sooner or later.
And so await every night in an involuntary state.

Wrapped in the static noise of city lights.
Pedestrian chatter and the sunset symphony.
Amongst silly geese who've yet to fly south.
Let confused by themselves and the skies.
Obstructed by poles, rods, and metallic bits.
Scarcely different to the people who built them.
Lying in sheets made of unidentified fibres.
Fabric stretched and pulled difficultly tight.

Pulled over and masking the scars of a body.
Sometimes I wonder if we have faces at night.
I'd be unable to greet, to love, to mercifully plea.
Redirect the lost or abandoned inspirations.
Wretchedly, elegantly perched on spidery legs.

Remember? I'm still faceless and asleep, in wait.
Receiving the tails of subliminal memories.
With no real effect, least not as other transports.
See the bird who comes with the food in its mouth.
To start tearing away at my newsprint womb.
Which, ashamedly, I did not build myself.
Because once upon a time, I had an idea.
"But first she must plant the seed."

(This title from the final line of Lewis DeSoto's "A Blade Of Grass".)