Dream walked past me today.
Our eyes did no meet, she did not acknowledge me in any way.

Weary and war torn soul
Hidden deep in the pocket of my coat,
Does not keep me warm; my socks do.

Music in that crystal thought. The gentle cadence of written word.

The body continues on without thought or direction.
A well contained machine that does not require oversight.

Who is to be the teacher?
The one who passes many secrets of the universe.
The wisdom of the ages.

Creativity the fickled Greek muse,
who is worshipped unorthodoxly,
carefully must dole out gifts to chosen prodigies.

The sun caresses the mountains gray blue form.
A most ardent of lovers-seeking favor every twenty-four hours.

Fatigue, the dry mantle settles over my eyes
Heavy pea soup fog comes drifting in
Tang of smoke and coffee, laced breath in and out
Soft blues in my brain

Quiet swish of fabric or click of doors
White, white light shines in
Gentle passing

The smell strong of fear and anger
Not many choices here
Drifting banshees sob the anguish of the lost

There is a simple sun ray
Secret language, translating codes
Existing incomplet within the machine

Warm, fluffy opium haze
The tide flowing in a womb
Clear icicle of time melting away

Beginnings and endings
Clatter and clacking of mag pies
infinite uselessness

Shallow thought, skimming alone the cortex.
Numbness crawls over dull eyes.
There is sadness so brittle it crushes bones.
Dreams do not grow in bitter wasteland
How much soul is left in a shadow?
Maybe prayers are lost within honeycombs.
Despair is wrung out of tears.
To lie would be kindness.
Truth slices thin ribbons of muscle from bone.
Hollow question of Why?
Secrets are a flush hand held in death.
The emotional disembowelment every day.

Liquid gray dreams
Droning static in my brain
Medicate to the point of dissimulation
What is there left of me?
Drive, desire, and despair are-gone.
A wind-up toy stumbling along at an uneven gait.
I am the good little girl that I should be.
I am sweetness, patience, and soothing.
Deep inside where the pretty pills don't go is sharp resentment.
What was wrong with Me?
What about what I want?
It's time for more happy pills, shiny pills, and the multi-color jewels of normalcy.

The tiny hole in my existence.
A pin prick within the fabric of my being.
Cold trickle of nothingness.
A simple key to a puzzle.
A mar on the smooth surface.
A wanting emptiness.
Hollow loneliness.
The nagging sense of unrest.