Eyes open in the early morning hours...
Sleep is a luxury that often avoids grasp...
Tenuous grasp on vivid dreams had...
Faces not seen in years
Caricaturized through the kaleidoscope of the internal universe...
2D on the surface of the black hole event horizon spinning at the center of it all...
Memories of it all blurred by urgency...
Colorized by the struggle to survive...
The eventuality of decay...
Intimate knowledge of every thing that goes bump in the night...
Barn owl and whippoorwill...
Vixen fox call and silence rustling in the fan blades...
It's always taken effort...
Moving boulders with the backhoe...
Changing the course of the river...
The landscape always changing...
Hanging on to the feel of the liminal spaces...
Those places where things feel familiar as well as new...
Always the same story with different characters,
There are only so many combinations one can realize before getting lost in the soup...
Everything has its brackets...
Roots digging down deep can still be exhumed...
Nothing can hide forever...
And no ghost can really be fully found...
The ghost of a mind is the spirit of material existence...
All falling and falling,
Settling dust of light...
Rising with the updraft,
And falling again with rain...
Gathering in pools on the sidewalk,
The soul of the muse
Soaking into porous concrete...
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