Warm as I wake,
Still clothed
In the arithmetic
Of dreams;
A few sentiments
Like gold flecks
In the pan,
Tangible and inert
To oxidising approach
Of the fast and probable day.
Yet there they are,
Untarnished evidence
Of my mind’s wandering,
Its sinuous, filamentous
In to that untapped,
That mystical
And incorporeal.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015