are we but the narcotic dreams from ancient poppies ground between the the pestles and the galipots of medieval alchemists? and as such dreams may we partake of conscious pleasures when we wake to wander freely in the light? oft denied us by the night but what is truth, what may we see to hold as our reality? Is this existence all it seems could we be more than fleeting dreams?
A demon’s fire ring in the forest frames these passioned stories told sensations heightened in the flames only the devil’s fingers hold mid-summer’s dry air stokes the fires soon the woods themselves ablaze and the maddening crescendo seems it could the whole world raze.
how sweet these transient dreams of flight safe in the feathered wings of night that brought you across the clouds to me to share a blessed affinity in pure embraces occupied within our never-ending sky
in a solitude at day’s end alone upon some timeswept shore I think of tomorrows left to me and yesterdays I’ll see no more but in this moment with the sea lost in commune with the tides it reminds me in their ebbs and flows how past and futures must collide.