Poetry

Step 1 (61.)

Snow sheets the trees and the ground,
for there is not enough for a blanket.
A pillow colder than stone,
yet softer; all told,
a pristine bed for a hot-headed somnambulist.
Tracks crease the sheets in due time,
and they say
the dream-traveler’s subconscious
has awakened.
Into what skull-trapped visions
walks this hypnotized zealot?
What map of gray matter
leads them to revelation?
Does freedom dance inside our bones,
or does it cling to them,
a miraculous jumpsuit made of flesh?
Out, wanderer!
Out into the frigid wilds –
the truth you seek in sleep
may move you miles.

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