warlock’d

past four a.m. slumber cannot be sane
the thought process needs
a morning shift
this time belongs to mister zombie
fast four fingers combing
forehead tufts then resting on the
cranial womb

the body loves these hours
with selfish pride, it boasts of life
while others idle in the
serfish ride of sheep sleep
leaping only into fleeting life
when dreams involve slipping off
of altitude
in blind surprise.