| It’s 4:45 and I’m fortified and on track
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| Awake overnight, a glorified insomniac
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| I wait for the morning light to make contact
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| It’s a glorious sight for sore eyes; |
| as dawn cracks
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| I’m ignoring it; |
| why? |
| My vision’s gone black
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| It’s time for a long nap, and I’m ready to be
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| Settled deep in steady sleep; |
| nestled in feather sheets
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| I’m already intrigued by what I see ahead of me
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| An iridescent beach, a crescent peach moon
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| A phosphorescent sea stirred by a western breeze
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| That carries a pleasant tune with a resonant beat
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| From the direction of desert dunes, as I begin to creep
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| To a crest where a vision looms: I can see seven priests
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| And a collection of ruins where earth and heaven meet
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| Sacred temples and tombs where spirits live and breathe
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| Their holy breath in the rooms, and I watch expectantly
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| As a ritual resumes; |
| but the head priest removes
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| His headpiece and beckons to me impatiently
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| As a second priest prepares a place for me next to his seat
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| And I obey his decree on shaky feet breathlessly
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| And leave the safety of the beach in a state of ecstasy |
| And proceed to the left of the priest and then stare
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| As the high priestess descends the temple stairs
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| And she’s dressed in expensive layers
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| From her knees to her chest and I freeze; |
| in her hair
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| Is a bee’s nest; |
| it’s the headpiece she wears
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| That keeps the rest of them all meek and scared
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| I try to be prepared, unaware that she wasn’t
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| Even comin' for me, and I would be spared
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| Then I’m on my feet runnin', surrounded by bees buzzin'
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| I can see the priests covered in about three-dozen
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| Apiece, with the priestess standin' above ‘em
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| Lookin' like she’s lovin' every minute of it
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| For a moment the image hovered in my vision and doubled
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| And then the next thing I know I’m back under my covers
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| Smothered with sunlight streaming through the shutters |