Broken Flow from the Lake of My Pen

On the hilltops of another language we slip up sometimes, we slip into things, into real delusions, into musings, into midnight reflection. Countless stars are rose petals beaming in jaded strips of envy, overshadowed by ghosts who wake up in the morning to see the day proceed in the same way a sagar unfolds from the earth. The neighbourhood fox comes back to me, when red pills seep from her and she's tainted with periods of madness that glow in her dull black pupils. Designated in the first portion of the sky.

I rest my head on the untrustworthy presence of a feeling I can't explain, yet I cannot help but devour my nightmares clothed in wishes of magic and a happy ending. In this graveyard of great pretending I rely on the foundation in place. The nightmares are a part of me, an additional feature, an abandoned child in a line of questions. They are seeds and life grows from them. I can't escape from them, my continuous thoughts, the Job's comforter telling me what I want to hear. In buildings I drown in noise, in the distinct meaning of an appellation.

As forlorn as the last star in the night ether or a sterilised voice in a bat cave, calling out for a hand. I see no way through the living daylight, through the roads rich with peril, driving off wistfully. The eye of a dream is a chestnut. I do not spin yarn. I do not take things that don't belong to me, or make up some kind of Berlin Wall. I listen to the stories told by forgotten soldiers, men in gold resin. Concentrating during the lesson. We sing in falsetto and write love letters. We express our sorrows and we have been taught well by a master in cornfields. Wearing spiders and comedy. Progressing in the moments I have been left to my own accord. Nothing is quite literal here when words blossom, when the sound of a passing train fills my ears, when the air carries me in a gas form. I have nothing to fall back on. I breathe in cold mornings, wanting to feel like a child again. A representation of my brazen actions hang on the paper, slanting at an angle. The sun consumes my face. It teaches me that life is real.