There is little point

There is little point

In trying to capture the drift

The slip-slide into sleep

When the will is set to work

As the body is saying no.

If only the hallucinogenic process

Could be accessed

In parallel

To lucidity.

The break from reality

Seems full of promise

On the very brink

When a body is stuck

In limp disregard of itself.

Barely awake

Unable to be raised

From the prone position

Into which it has sunk

Eyelids heavy with boredom.

They do say

It is a man-made phenomenon,

So logic tells me,

But the truth of it is lost

In the gentle drift away.

When I am transported

To another country

With a different set

Of rarified sensibilities

Just beyond

The breadth of my vision.

Curtailed by a lack

Of natural light

An understanding of

The direction

And attraction

Of linear thought.

The discomfort caused

In opposition to a lateral

Shift in the Imagination.

Barely able

To cling onto its shirttails

As it skelters

In freefall.

And without the where-with-all

To fully grasp

Hold of meaning,

As it floats by

In unconscious progress,

When an idyll can become

A flight of fancy

A bleary dreamscape

Another world.

Existing

Out of time

Without a safety helmet

Or a handheld recording device

To mark the event.