Hours before dawn,
Those imbued with ethereal spectres,
by a mind of sleep depraved,
An augmentation of reality,
Bordering on hallucinogenic.
Phantom sounds and ghostly presence,
Concepts of logic rewritten,
with a mind half-dreaming-gullible.
Through such sleepless depravity,
Ephemeral clarity,
Enlightened thought,
Fleeting and unbound by the shackles of logic,
Raw, straight from the subconscious.

And then the moment is past,
Fading into the oblivion,
Of waking dreams not remembered.
All that remains is a faintly whispered echo,
A word on the tip of your tongue.


About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
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