Here Speaks a Waking Dream.

I stopped to write a poem and the page left itself blank. No metaphors rang out from my skull, my jaw did not open, and my eyes did not swell with tears. In white flashes of foggy laughter, running amok in sunshine, and in touches of longing did I stop in a lucid moment to bask in the sweetness of such fleeting presents. The paper did not cry for my pen, I did not yell for words, but I did ache to lay down on my side and let my memories hold me close. On the floor I fell, and surely my longing was met by the comfort of knowing that it has been these arms, these legs, this torso, and this cranium which have been the receiver of my photographic visions. Each glowing vision flows like a hushed river but also yells like a vulture; it encircles the living thinking that it has found the dead upon which it would rightly feast. The delay of sense quells a restless notion in each passing of blinding time I recall. Then in a rush of hours but in a mere burst of gracious seconds, my senses gripped my neck and chafe me till I bled dry and am but bare bones. I fell into silence, and kissed the forehead of what I saw was myself sitting deep into my own past eyes. Moments captured by a present self, bathing in the dripping thoughts of the past! Oh, how I come to curl in my bedsheets and the stone between me and prose has been moved!