Poetry

That May Be, 15 (136.)

There is a place
where the sun does not follow close upon sleep,
and the wolves do not need to chase tired little sheep,
and all the towers of all the powers-that-be
are lined floor to ceiling with pillow fortresses.

These are the signs of a true civilization,
these are the markers of a home filled with peace.
Blankets fill empty spaces
and dreams run free in every jolly brain crease.

Let us go where the moon hangs low.
Let us walk through a portal with no locks, and no doors.
Let us serenade the jellyfish that swim through space like waves.

In dreaming.
Day dreaming.
Reality is screaming for a makeover.
Maybe even a do-over.

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