The cusp of sleep

Lying in my sweat in a place I don’t know
which, as of now, is my home
Drunk on the new and the free and cheap Rioja
Trying to find the chink of light
between reality and the dream of death
Strangers and spirits closer than my own thoughts
invade the purple night
Dylan plays to his own empty hall
and maybe this will all mean something
to someone some day
in some yet to be discovered way