Somnamublist

For five consecutive nights,
They have risen.
Dressed.
Left the house.
Moving with quiet certainty,
Functioning
Like everyone else.

The city never sleeps.
Its streets remain alive,
Bathed in the cold fluorescence
Of trains,
Streetlights,
And convenience stores.

Humanity continues,
Relentless.
Insanity,
Open all hours.

Among the midnight crowds,
The Somnambulist walks unnoticed.
They board public transport.
They wait at crossings.
They wander forgotten laneways
Until dawn begins
To soften the skyline.

Nobody questions them.
Nobody suspects
That although they left their bed,
They never truly woke.

The body walks.
The dream continues.
The sleeper exists
Within two worlds at once.
The waking world.
And the dreaming one.

When the Somnambulist
Finally opens their eyes,
Morning greets them
With unfamiliar streets,
A racing heart,
And hands
Still wet with blood.

They cannot explain
The crimson stains,
Nor why a fifth broken body
Lies silently
At their feet.