are dreams subject to my individuality
or does someone else choose them
from the scraps
floating around my brain?
under these strange constellations
beyond form, beyond seeing,
for the fragment that can be released
a fragment of self
of context
in trying to please
the very heart of creation
im afraid
nothing else will do.

it all looks like death
down deep under
the great curse of man
and here is where i find me
face to face with what i must have been
a creature quivering
in this spiderweb
while strange growths
take shape —
the contorted aching
of devils that dance in shadow
and refuse to face me
same as i
refuse to escape.

what in past hands was held in despair
hold now
as tender
and precious.
oh, state of ignorance!
and these raw boorish fists
beaten bloody against a veil…

writing it out
what have i learned?
it’s only an illusion
but a real one.

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