The dry scent of the dust is full,
like the moon on a dreary night.
The darting dander drifts about,
as the stillness of mind writes.

Just as i sew what i do not reap,
my mind is asleep and incomplete.
And beneath the emotions' crying,
there is solidarity and white light.

White light, like hair is pulled,
aches and moans, of course.
To work it from it's little room,
is useless against sleep's force.

The smoke rises slow and falls,
as little creatures move around.
The hollow spaces between the walls,
they house the empty spirits' sounds.

Something pulses through blood,
like a greater source of clear sight.
The spaces between me stretch,
and i wish i knew what blood writes.

In this space, where all the dreams are,
there is conflict clear in sight,
There's always one way or very far,
and i am making up both sides.

Oh, this room is backwards windy,
up and down, and inside out.
Nothing runs, well, very smoothly,
until i organize a perfect route.

09/02/2005

Author's Note: The term 'backwards windy' is kind of my motto.

Posted on 09/03/2005
Copyright © 2025 Meagan Green