I
think of dreams, a bit too cautious to dream. I wrestle life, this thread of
mustard seeds. We seldom know the affect of prose, to measure our virtues. It’s
the value of love, which compels the dreams, that closer to knitting visions;
and die this dream, to live this dream, a dream away from dreaming. The woes
are vague, to center a source, an attempt for clarity; to dig as restless, a
coffin of nerves, a gator in a net. I dream of sinning, this lavish sin,
cemented in riches; where this is false, the gates of tears, a loss of
establishment; but oh the dreams, to feel as human, a grain into a harvest; to
reel for colors, this turquoise sky, a pocket of the cosmos. I see us spinning,
a slave of righteousness, to reap such fervor; and die this dream, to live this
dream, a dream away from dreaming; to feel this life, a carousel for moons, as
wholesome as prayers; and dream this dream, this world we flourish, as burdened
as dreams; to live and die and give and sin. I know this face, a tender expression, to
perish this dream; where facts are trite, the winds are precious, and the
valves are revving; to see as life, the death of issues, to journey this dream.
We passion the night, as gray as visions, to discern the purple; in turn we
suffer, to wax so pure, a vase upon an antique shelf; to die this dream, and
give this dream, a dream away from dreaming; where tension stirs, the roots of
self, and the bark is stumbling. I feel so young, to imagine such years, the
face of a mother’s calm; to hear for hells, and say for little, to watch in the
wings; where god was bold, to frighten the light, to carry embarrassment; but
life for dreams, to castle and turn, a dream away from dreaming.
