Early start. Early post. Hand over the coffee and I’ll let the world continue another day.
The dream was all abstraction. A poem, if you will, written in the senses.
Rolling hills of dark brown softness,
Undulate with the viciousness of wistful sighs.
Sweet and tangy motes fly
In parallel contradictory paths before the mote that is me.
A sky so black, it’s brown glows warm
Embracing all in inverse light, releasing by undoing.
Freeing by destroying.
I was sober last night. Tired, but sober.