the story of dreams

i never created it,

it became me and in a deeper

than usual menu of paralysis 

i broke the lifted petals into

even more brilliant pieces.

uncertainty calms our demise

spread over in thin layers

of insomnia;
the pointed windows 

to sex remains open closed and

open; in that, again,
a mural.

i am a human on a mountain
waiting for our humans
waiting for the same breath.
cross-legged and turned
to ice rather than my
beatless heart.

smoke of our fires
have killed us and in
our 9th life we are still
not home.

bodies are discriminating into
longer arms and shorter souls
but we never chased the rain
away;
we never once told the rain
to stop breathing.

we sacrificed and
died a dry talented
lie of a life with pink lips
and 6th senses.

copper lit hair

vanished among our braided
future we fear
to unravel and let
breath of our neptunes
in.

i am a soaking air of
knowing and by and
by i am still. i am distilled
in this water of grief where there
is no beginning middle
or end. just an end an
end and a copper lit
end. i weave into her quilt
whilst she tumbles empties
down her rustic slacks;
defined ribs for one
purposeful opening.

waiting for a blossom
covered in cherry paint
and no one will ever
see what i saw
today.

just the hanging
words on these white
flavored
empty pages.
one by one
and end
by non.