I rise to a falling thought.
A sentence written half in dream.
Some hidden truth I sought.
Or so awakened it seems.
Half the words in whiskey breath.
A drunken disarray.
I see myself in those words.
It is me, still the same.
Are dreams only from waking moments.
Or does imagination count.
I fear my mind, even though I own it.
I fear the dreams without sound.
Can I stand one more night.
A vanguard made of one.
Here they come, they come again.
There is no kingdom come.
Jason C. Cushman