A donkey’s bray saws through my dream,
opening sleep’s creaking door.
Three hours slumber is not enough.
I float the night in search of more.
Like a porthole letting in the day,
night’s shadow cusps the bloated moon.
Its light invades my stubborn dream.
I am awakened too soon, too soon.
A message honed on the strop of night
slices through my dream’s light gown.
My mind’s eye heavy with lost sleep
sees truth disrobed and writes it down.
When waking we feel taught by dreams,
it may not be as it appears.
Who knows what sophistries have been
whispered in unwary ears?
[1:01 AM] okcforgottenman: OK here’s my prompt for tomorrow, “She cusped the bloated moon.”