Dreams Of Old

In between the words
you left me falling through,
quiet eyelids turned fluttering
butterflies,
ethereal and unimaginable
flashes of thought
come to focus
as though through the twitching lens
of a steady gruff hand

-so old it has whiskers on the fingers-

color created within the steady
isolation
of the mind
not without where it truly resides
so deception is manifest through the illusion of all color in pigment.

I’m breathing slow,
the weight of the body pressing into
the bed,
the weight of the soul pushing upward
from the gut.

And open, peppermint-red fields are clear
cooled by a sweet sugar ocean breeze,
off the crest of the cliff.

Dear vacation spot,
I’m here again, letting you set me free in your purple sky,
refreshing to my bare feet like ginseng,
no longer anchored in the saltwater sting
of the oceans abroad.

New skin
old body,
old scars,
same air
breathing in quiet.

captured in the reference of
a lost thought,
a dream,
an old reality,
something
dissmantled
dissipated
upon opening of day.

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