Poetry

Step 30 (90.)

It could all be as easy
as cutting a door through space,
a simple task in dreams.
Yet this walk
is one that demands full attention on reflections.
Back past the void,
the drunkard with his gin,
the pieces of exploded tin,
the castle melted to slag,
the underwater room and its cave,
those colorful beautiful plants,
the new cacti family,
the oasis where I met my guides
(beautiful feathers and fur),
and learned to fly,
the tower rising, imperious and mysterious, elevating us whence we came.
Woods haunted by different dreams,
frigid sea floor,
another void with oily darkness clinging like unwelcome hands,
always more,
stars swirling and dancing in the distance,
a sacred something to it all so I bow my head again,
shining subterranean wonders and terrors, some shrouded in bone dust,
moving as best we can in sludgy slug lives,
sky-ocean blurring like a rogue’s knives,
tremulous undersea cavorting on some level of dream hell,
emerge in forest full of arctic birds and sharp ticks,
wonder how they take their licks,
contemplate the mysteries of flight again,
wheeling among dream clouds and sleep shrouds,
are those pieces of the clouds themselves, no,
they are cold as ice.
It is the tumbling snow,
and we
are back where we began.

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