Wings

A constant avalanche.
They fall upon me in heaps,
And I stagger on my feet,
Oh it is so hard to contain them
And they are but mine, all mine.

A perennial river.
They creep into my blood
And flow through me, the
Sustenance for my very being.
The room falls scant, how
Do I keep myself from
Bursting from within?

They emerge from the depths
Of my heart, from the recesses
Of my mind and take shape in the
Forge of my slumber, beneath
The shadow of my eyelids
These dreams, they stretch their wings
And take my spirit for a ride

Tangled

“Maybe we’re all part of the same unconscious stew, dreaming the same dreams, hoping the same hopes, needing the same connection, trying to find it, missing, trying again—each of us playing our parts in the other’s plots, just one big ball of human yarn tangled up together. Maybe this is it.”
― Libba Bray