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Where does your mind go when you turn out the light?

Does it wander untethered? A child’s balloon upon errant gale?

A flutter of wind to give breath to ascent?

     A harpy of need?

Or is it sunk down- stuck in mire- a ship wrecked in the chasm?

The surface a sky’s height above you,

     Anchored…  Indeed

For the pressings of the once, now and to be settle like silt upon ruinous keep - and in darkness I struggle to know a word stronger than dull,

A phrasing complete- something to paint this dread mundanity,

Then like fruit from the vine a word in my mind springs forth- a word that begins as it ends…

     And nearing slumber I can’t help but smile as my mind’s inner wiles lay fed...

A word of grief- a terrible wreath- for dead is the word and the word lays dead…