Wake up and die
again.
To myself, thus to
the world.
For of what use
can one be to the world
if his sole purpose is
to work and
work and
work
as though he has no
purpose
at all.

But
there comes always
a rebirth.
Many, in fact, each time
the clock’s punched out.
And
when the moon rises east,
and the crickets play their songs
and coyotes sing along,
everything inside me,
those trillions of cells, all
standing by,
are in harmony.

And this is when the real
work
begins.

Pen meets paper
and words spill across pages
like stars across the sky.
Constellation sentences
lingering until dawn, the same way
poetry
brings forth a feeling;
a feeling,
borne entirely,
that fades inevitably until
the next time
I come alive again.
My soul re-
purposed.

I go to sleep alive.
Then wake up and
die
again.