All That Makes Me

They say I sleep like an amoeba --
Spread everywhere.
I am full of my madness.
And particular about
The milk set to curd.
The vegetables arranged
In geometric patterns,
Inside the refrigerator.
These things, they make me.
Not the glorious full moon,
Supervising,
The clothes out to dry.

In the depth of my nights.
There is also a step-well,
Beautifully structured,
Each step closer to hell.
Grandiosely, it guards
Abstract nightmares.

There isn't any water,
To explain
The reflections.
Nor any air,
To justify the sound.
It is a mute sight,
Of a dark day.

In my senses,
I would not dare,
To take a step in.
My attempts to float out,
Rises from within.

These then,
Make me, me.
Not a rainy smile,
Nor a starry whim.
Would you now reiterate?
You are what you dream.