Fodder

The art of sleep takes a clever, selfless mind; one must give up their stream of thoughts to the mass collective on the brink of unconsciousness. Those distant fingers pick through ideas and pull out the berries while piling branches for poetry fodder. The selfish stare to the darkened ceilings, anchoring their proudest thoughts and turning through nights.

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6 comments so far

  1. AD on

    🙂 i got a little lost but i read it thrice!

    My Sunday Poem

  2. Sweetest in the Gale on

    Brilliant and clever! Your words are so true…I absolutely loved “Those distant fingers pick through ideas and pull out the berries while piling branches for poetry fodder.

  3. stan on

    Who knows what sleep might take away? – Perhaps we should stay awake.

  4. Jane Doe on

    This piece flows very well, I also like the line, ‘Those distant fingers pick through ideas and pull out the berries while piling branches for poetry fodder.’ Well done!

  5. Michelle Johnson on

    The trouble is I can never remember the poetry from my dreams. I just remember that it was good fodder for a poem. Great write, Noah. Hope all is well.

  6. Selma on

    I often think of the best story ideas while in a half-sleep state. Sadly, they are lost in the morning. I really liked this!


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