What if your world was filled with so much imagination it lay breaking, high above the towers, in your weakened state of mind.
Icy people, floods and more floods, my dreams and everyone in them keep getting swept away.
And there’s that story I wrote about the moon capsizing the Earth upon hitting the sea.
And there’s that time a flood came in my dreams and the next morning I woke up brutally wounded, like an angel powerless to save humanity, stunned by the end of the Earth.
It occurs to me, the last time I had this type of dream was also in this room. Not my childhood room but the one upstairs, with the bed on the floor in the last house my brother bought. He’s moving, may I never see the waters rise again.
Where do I turn, when I think that me and everyone in my dream IS me…what does that say about who I am?
Tumultuous, rapturous, riddled, caring, swearing, with a light lit to oversea the darkened water.
I’ve always wondered where dreams come from
and how the written word dips its pen into that source code.
Madness but I embrace the new moon, visions so shameless, I preserve the River spoon.