from water that defies description, and deifies
transcription, any method of recording
the sensation of sliding through dimensions.
In these mentions of planar travel
we would do well to unravel exactly where one thread ends
and another begins,
but we are just beggars on these star-lighted streets
and clarity is not our blessing.
This vast space
commingles all relevant and irrelevant thoughts
until ownership is broken.
The wheel spins eternal
and one sleeper’s greatest fear
is another’s favorite resting place.
Sprawling cactus city lets us in with open needled arms,
and the somnambulist walks behind
despite the unknowing in their soul.
The desert rat am I, and I invited all the sands of my
lost times, good and bad, to fill the creases in my feverish brain.
Sooner or later they will all turn
to glass, and my thoughts shall endlessly reflect
until they dissipate to dust.
Such is the cycle of my discontent, for dust begets sand,
and sand becomes glass, and glass turns us ’round and ’round
with no easy exit.
My companion grunts, for they have run into my issues.
Every cactus is a reflection, the heated mirrors
of my mind refracting my pointy defenses.
’tis a sham, and a good one,
for despite my weakened walls, nobody gets close.
The somnambulist has had enough of this,
and I hear a shattering wail behind me.
They have broken some of my glass;
my mirrors, undone.
A lone cactus in the center of the sand
waits for one to pick its only flower.
My companion reaches out,
and I see
lead on in dreaming.