empty milk crates

What realms do we delve into when we sleep? Can we begin to pretend we are in charge? This upper lip quivers, while the lower is frozen in fear, attempting to replicate a waking performance. Only better. The clavas keep the time while blurry imagery adorns the border of the mindscape.  I stare at the open palm of my hand and then close it. Intentionally. I reopen it and turn my hand over, staring at my totem of a ring.  Begin with me again, forgetting all that has come before.  Reside with me in darkness, breathing in the steam from lava rocks freshly poured.  I cannot be dissuaded or deterred.  This will not be the end as I know it.  Else I have already died, and this is the aftermath.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to empty milk crates

  1. ned says:

    I’m out here.

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