Every night is the beam
Of sleep we wrap in
Folding thread by thread, loosely, tightly
In a stream
Whose unsuspected barriers we never feel
Enough as to fully recall or grasp.
Every day we walk past
Former selves without ever escaping
The circle of bodily own isolation,
All while vibrating
In battering and restoring plans
That enduringly attempt shaking
Off the spell of mortal shell.