On the horizon of sleep
there is a distant point,
evasive and
unknown,
because it is never remembered
after being found,
After a long
search
through blankets tossed and turned,
After
mantras recited
and silent lullabies sung,
After eyes
are closed tight
And breaths taper off,
After sheep
are counted,
the point is untouched,
while the hands of the clock
crawl past midnight.
The sunlight
strays into the window
and ends a dream remembered,
but that distant point found
after a long, restless struggle
is still unknown.
cmheuer ©12/2022
