the subconscious index

looking haggard after the journey i never walked,
but thought,
hearing the conversation never talked,
but caught;
i am a traveller sitting still in periphery,
a puddle of throwaway lines sticking to my feet,
until distance dries out the footprints
the sun shall be swallowed by skies
in their headache of clouds
like a pill,
like a blush turning inwards
to colour the heart,
the tide was flushed deeply;
you say i come like the night,
then sleep me,
and sleep-think pictures into my fabric;
i coffee my morning
and breakfast my stomach,
then write down the scenarios,
another's venturing into subconscious' index
flicked through air in rotations of coin shadows
to pay the slot
i reserved for rhythm.