Five hours of fitful sleep, and pouring

over texts of words that escape

my memory, moments after

reading them.

There is no Shelley who spins

tales in my head, only images

that do not follow, and phrases

that do not explain.

In earnest, I have seen the sleepy

artist’s palette, her brush dropping

from her fingertips as she dozes,

wakes in a quiet panic, and

tries to recall her vision

that becomes a dream.

There are shades of blue and aubergine

that hint of dusk becoming a

surreal depiction of a sky,

and shades of soft-yellow, quick brush

strokes, unfinished, only groundwork

she will lay to give a seamless glow.

The paint drips together,

swirling without mixing,

firm, linear shapes that

end in a small globe, and

does she see?

Slipping in and out of consciousness,

she might reflect on painting

ahead of her, but she does

and does not see it,

a mirage of collective soul,

dribbled out through bouts of

wakeful tendency, and