So What if I Sleep?

Third eyelid falls heavy,
it’s easy to close,
in afternoon shadows,
curled up to write prose.

So what if I sleep?
Is that how I feel?
Like everything’s nothing,
and nothing is real.

Write what I mean?
How about mean what I write?
The world has turned backwards,
and no one’s contrite.

It’s two things at once –
to live, and be alive
to indulge them both
when told “one at a time.”

So what if I sleep?
Is that how this goes?
Unshaking in attitude,
curled up,
writing prose.

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