Then consider this, That these words Are like an urgent message. Or a hand reaching from such depth, That all of hope is condensed Into a single clutching grasp. Out and up from saturated moments That comprise the miasma of dreaming. The dusk of life is compellingly calm. Then let me describe. The pillow is the first headland to be breached. This swirl is familiar, It is comprised of all that was previous. My days, by day are a reality, By night, equally real, but disordered. The restful refining of truths. Dreams are like a broke open core, A re-running of the steely facts. Events that became impregnated, Not in any way cellular, Rather psychological Cranial and behind the eyes. And random But in no way to be considered as processable. Therefore regardless of consequences, Let the invasions of this day commence. Words & Picture c2019 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.