Bryan Bukowski


Far From Days

Asleep with my thoughts counting eight hours a day.
Feet raised up from the floor made light from a dawning night.
A chance to retreat from obedient herds, pressed from social routine.
Qualms resolving, answers arise with resting ease (through resting eyes) .

Cleansed for pursuit succumbed to the seduction of nourished sleep,
Bathed in dreams that rinse away the clotting swell,
That fevered toil cracking like mud, the filth of scavenged life.

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