Sleeping Dragon

Sleep is the only friend to my pen. Yet this writing stabs each z in the spine. Coerced away from consciousness, my abilities awaken. My unconscious calls to do its work in silence, and in a place and way I can't notice. My pencil holds it hostage, demands a dance and some answers. I see not what it is getting but self-satisfaction; an ambiguous and zealous sense of achievement: it's ruined my sleep to feel itself feeling. What will ever come from this restless and tired pitter-patter of labour? At least traces of my breathing can be mapped across a calendar - and most scintillating of all, into the future. So when music and knowledge fails, exploration ends and my ears can hear no more, let me find my unconsciousness and ask it questions. A sleepy dragon poked has little answers, but what can one do when it wakes only once a millennium to snack on nearby bones. The dragon once flew in a youth of bright skies and consciousless wander. Now it contemplates the work to do deep within. A future a million years away called tomorrow dare us not to fail, just ruin the opportunity for success. The way will come and I suppose it is just me blocking its passage. My dead body can be kicked; I have the strength, I sometimes find it in these nights. Where answers don't come my resolve thus does. I guess I understand why the sleepy dragon lies.