The Relegation of Existence
i'm not a sojourner.|
no, but a wanderer, indeed,
if nothing else than in my sleep.
i visit forests; quiet,
as loud as quiet can be.
and i see her.
you're just a whisper,
in a shadow of a mist,
illuminated then vaporized,
by a single thread of sun,
that dances back and forth,
between branches in a breath of wind.
you're a drop of blood,
in a once raging river,
and consumed quietly, unaware,
as it enters the vastness of an ocean.
just a line,
quickly and poorly written,
on an old piece of yellowed and wrinkled,
paper that i kept hidden in a drawer,
like a secret verse of an esoteric psalm,
that i could conjure up your image with.
where there's sleep, there are dreams.
and where there are dreams, there is,
a will to survive; to breathe out some kind of grace.
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