The highly accomplished Niamh Bagnell - radio presenter, poet, performer, gardener etc - is running this week's poetry bus excursion this week and who knows where we'll end up. The task this week is to write about confusion, or write something confusing. This is my poor effort. Please don't expect a punchline because there isn't one.
Sometimes I wake.
Sometimes I keep on dreaming.
At times it seems I'm halfway in between.
It's hard to break
my sweet subconscious streaming
where all things are and all things might have been.
When I'm adrift
and floating, lost and aimless,
confusion melts like dewdrops on the grass.
There is no rift
between the named and nameless,
between the past and what is yet to pass.
And when grey light
through neutral blinds come streaming,
the mist outside this building thick and dense,
I crave the night
and hours of blissful dreaming
where everything appears to make such sense.
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