Rolling with the tides, turning over. The dream stays awake, and there is nothing separating the bounds of reality versus irreality; for they are the brackish water of a conscience. Just as one may as well be completely dissolved when conscious, and self aware in the unconscious.
Trenches of an oceanic mountain cave in, the sounds of its rage rippling through the crust of the Earth. At the surface, it appears we sit acutely, but we are at its broadest end. There is nothing keeping this island from sinking but its precise distribution of momentum and sound.
Can you hear the chimes? The dozen hung at the bottom of my balcony. Reminders of tradition and cultural piety. I am no less of a ghost than the first soul who bent melton metal. I have died a hundred times more than my ancestors; their breath as the wind - Mine to uplift them.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: July 2nd, 2024 05:12
- Comment from author about the poem: Metaphorical introspection
- Category: Nature
- Views: 1
Offline)
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