I Found My Soul in a Fishbowl Bubble Dream

let it all go. all of it. something within me so angry. I do not understand. I do not understand just as I do not understand my own thought processes. How they loop, lift, cry out before dipping back into the quiet sea of my mind.

A distance, a great expanse between who I am and who I wish to be

deep gorges,
something indicative of a valley.

And I think
And I think
And I lose myself in thought
and I lose myself

Somewhere far off in the flashing expanse of dreams
a gateway, a door, an ocean, purple in the almost night of sunset
green, the shore, green
faces stretched and flashed, pulled forward at the speed of sleep
drinks, food, a sweep of a french banquet,
a man in a beautiful suit, arms outstretched in prideful welcome
addressing someone out of sight
out of his sight.

beyond him is all burgundy and deep red-brown
something carved out of wood
something of value
I can never know
the silk of the sheen more filling than what had come before

pass through the reflection,
a fish with a fox head, teeth as pure as the first flash of morning sun.
quiet, quiet, behind him, a sphere in space,
amorphous statements collected, compressed over time can’t quite explain
a bubble suspended by gravity
encased within the bowl of the fish
inside is:

I lose myself

I lose myself

and I think and I think and I think

stars over and beneath;
something like a bedrock of space;
falling over it, gliding over it, looping through and correcting myself
each piece of the puzzle of my soul, coming apart, and coming back together.
The soul: deep, quiet, small.
only simple adjectives can describe this gift

bathing in liquid like deep midnight;
all reflection everywhere from the stars of creativity until
I lose myself

Quiet dark comes to greet me,
cocooning my arms, legs in thin sleep
all is soft and still;

Then a pinprick, this time, no lament,

The expanse that has wedged itself between me and my future
walks into a beam, illuminated, he stands quiet and angry
it is an old ghost, a sad man, bent on starving my fish
and nothing changes.
no ark,
no quintessential movie moment where he is forgiven or forgives;
he has done no wrong
he has been a product of all that has come to him,
all that he has come to be is all that he has come to;
he is nothing more than a callous of happenstance
a bruise of chance.