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Updated: Feb 23

I believe in the stories I hear of the adventures you’ve had each night when you drift off to sleep.

You’re a sailor, a pirate, a deep sea diver and you roll away with a swell, in a rush! You’re finding treasures somewhere in your slumbering planet. Will you bring me something each morning? I’m your sun, all alert, never dreaming. Instead I’m ablaze in the glow of my mind.

And gold drips through fingertips

—coagulated sunlight—

soft globs of me spilling out everywhere.

I could climb to the top just to look around.

I find there’s an overwhelming amount of undetectable, unseeable, undecipherable particles way far up in the atmosphere here. I foresee the unseeable, a cloud in my sky, hovering in corners like a faceless man. I cannot reflect on that which rejects all radiance and beauty. The refusal to shine seems a shame to me.

It’s no matter, just dark matter.

It’s a turbulent thing.

And it wrinkles in refracting light each dusk when we have our bloodstained goodbyes. You stretch out before me, then roll off away in one gentle exhale. What is the meaning of a blind man’s tale that envisions the world through the mind’s eye instead? And does it matter if there’s dark matter in the traces of the mind if one refuses to see the unseeable?

I want to unpack the unpackable, and think the unthinkable. I want to loosen the soil of the mind. So I’m moving just fine in the rollback and tide. To seek and to find. To reveal all that which hides these deep swells of the mind.

I’ve got red water lapping at the surface of me. And emotion bleeds are killing me.

Blood slips with mangled grips

—coagulated love life—

red throbs of me pluming out everywhere.

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