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A Moralist In Disguise
July 13, 2020
The More Compassionate Me
June 6, 2020
May 27, 2020
Faith is What is Hoped For!
May 25, 2020
Operation Warp Speed Recovery
May 19, 2020
A Symposium on Bidets
May 11, 2020
May 4, 2020
April 28, 2020
October 11, 2012
Thomas G. Moore
Sleep; is it not like being dead?
Not remembering the hours when abed
My body rests but my mind is alert
Like some symbiotic creature going about its work
It prioritizes my unidentified dreams
Cataloging and sorting is its theme
What’s important and trivial is its task
A remembrance of my dreams rarely lasts
In my mind are there two of me?
I surmise I am not the body you see
My body will wither and die such is the case
The real me will survive the grave, it can’t be erased
We close our eyes and cease to think
Into a dark nameless realm we sink
From consciousness we slide into the abyss
Like a siren’s song, it’s impossible to resist
We often embrace sleep’s caress
To escape the turmoil of our duress
To forget, to not remember, to flee
To submerge oneself in an endless sea
In slumber do we commune with God?
Our spirits permeated by some ethereal fog?
Communing with it, relieving our distress
Comforting our being like a mother’s caress
Our eyelids resists sleep’s embrace
Are we afraid? Is it death we taste?
Why are we so sure we will awake?
Where’s the guarantee? It’s a risk we take
All things living slumber must enfold
In defeat we surrender to oblivion’s toll
Who is my mind and why do I sleep?
By whose command, It’s my mind I seek?