Summoned by the bell from the deepest dreamed hell
to a steel-cold reality with a taste of mortality
buried under the weight of an unlooked for fate.
Here, in my warm bed with a pillow under my head,
I stir like a whale harpooned, like a lover swooned
longing for a sweet embrace, a chance to kiss her face
and trace long lines of lust. But time turns to dust
this wanton longing fantasy of a deadhead fallacy.
“I love the smell of fresh coffee in the morning,” I say.
“It smells like… like victory.” Smell delicious hickory.
“One day this world will end,” I, for effect, pause to send.
My cup cools towards a feeling as my mind begins reeling
from the sudden arrival of morning light and my survival
On the alter of a sweet dream of silk and lace of subtle green,
Of tangled limbs and bottled films, of chance now throttled
In a pagan pursuit of peace smeared with coaxial grease
And running, running here, looking there for hope come near,
For something ever lost and never found in time’s frost
On frozen ground by the sound of hooves as horses pound
Towards me and I see, above the parapet of work the sea,
Greens and blues that shimmer silver turning up to glimmer
Sweet, sweet sweat of love on the deck of vessels above
The deep dark depths of my imagination, and now I cry
With new born eyes while time severs dreamt hollow ties
And in dark morn I rise, then to life I go and again reprise.
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