Sleep could never have happened.

Sleep did not happen,
Sleep could not have happened.

Not while liquid snakes,
Streamed through the porch,
Of my tent.

Not while bees swarmed,
Deafeningly on the canvas.

Not while a strobe of lights,
Pierced the sky.
And the Gods applauded,
With red handed cheer.

Sleep could never have happened.

And now, I sit under Victorian sky,
With squinted eye,
And a head like a,
Cracked walnut.

With dirt coffee,
And a green tea pot.

My wellingtons,
Two sizes too small,
And a breeze,
Which is cool.

The grass dries slowly,
Under the mildest sun,
And my spirits are lifted,
And the specs of rain,
Still clear on this tent city,
Become small.

As if strewn with ants.

The world is waking up,
But I,
Never slept.