crash and burn. another victim of circumstances. some are illusions. some come wild into a long hour's intrusion. the ones I hate the most are the ones that reveal themselves to be true. those blushing guests making their fashionably late entrance to the party
starlight in soft midnight. a whole heaven full of pathways. bridges. synapses. I lick the glue of a metaphorical envelope and send another dream on its way. there are millions of them. billions of them. and who's to say which ones are opened. and who's to say which ones are answered. and who's to say which ones just keep floating away
here I am, dulled, below half a bright moon. half of me is rotting in the belly of a beast. half of me is blooming in a prisoner's garden. all of me gets carefully attended to. and loved in different ways. and tortured
most of this life remains unopened. I'm just now starting to find a few keys here and there. her kiss. their laughter. the open mindfulness of solitude. I am revived by each one. resurrected in them all
its subtle, the transformation from one minute to the next
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