Bored to tears

I would be bored to tears if tears could sing of rocks
dancing, or girls singing songs that sweep life aside,
to make the next book a silent repose,
there on the couch they lie of real countenance,
real efforts to drag the excited response of novel ending.

It's sad to think of dialogue unsaid and reality that
this one will not ever say, to remind the person to
speak in a dialect that all can understand, a brogue
that makes coffee for drink and brew that's too
wealthy for salty eyes, ready for a good cry.

Hardly ever do we see our kids in this state, in this
way of dozing, slapping life from the jar, from cookies
ready to be had instead of lunch, just white bread
that we usually see, rarely toasted for fear of
heavy eyes, heavy faces solidly behind the off white.

Is it gray or simply another foggy day, fog that brings
us closer to a remedy for sleep, taking turns at the
night, a soldier stands at attention, the penalty for
sleep being death by Lewis, Clark standing in approval
though any of us could be a nightmare away.

The squad is certainly one way to shock the senses
awake and full of caffeine, standing at attention,
backs up against the wall, to take a hint from the
dark ages when people also did sleep, but highly
unlikely to breed dissent from sleepy lullabies.

© 2015 Larry Ingram