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Counting Sheep
April 14, 2016
The essence of contentment, retreating into infancy, the Benjamin Button of each evening, awake and live in desolate despair, as the oldest hag that ever was.
Seething with anger towards the place that welcomed her as a blossoming flower until the black and white shadows took over, and the moon returned again, to bottle the purest drops of naivety.
And sell it as the fountain of youth.
© Jasmine R., Bourbon, MI
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I wrote this when I was heading to bed one night, because I couldn't get the concept of falling asleep out of my head. This is my interpretation.