awake

[the_on_switch]

 Morning.  Afternoon.

Don't try to speak too soon
So don't wake up until
The sun has touched this windowsill

This house has sides that hide
But always, there's a little bit of light
That grows from out of my own mind

When I think life is yet unkind

I hold a means to make some things
That have a purpose in their being
Drawing lines between the pages

Making mazes out of distant information
Seeing how the channel range is
On receptors of old stereos

I think I know therefor I almost am

I can remember all the dreams therein
A sleep that makes its structures out of sand
And funnels through an hourglass of obsidian

Don't look at colors you can't see
As if they had no frequency
Because the universe can read them

Books of old advertisements speak to the soul
In an art as dead as latin, as a language, is

It worked when I used its words before
But now I'm stuck with this

Colored buildings hold up lessons
Learning to fly planes and taking up things
That I could almost see myself still doing

Now and then
I would descend

But mostly just keep going