Day 1

This is
For those who dream of landscapes.
For those who dream of
low, rolling hills,
crests of tanned leather earth,
cracked by the abuse of hard rays
unfiltered, unadulterated.

Pilgrims search for water, screaming
for some retribution or replenishment,
While my mind trades the golden exploration of sleep
for the terror of a starving voice-

And sweeping movements of sand
carry thoughts away to end and rest-
If one would change, he’d
be a strand, a grain set to move
against the flow- one grain in all
to cause an improbable shift of consciousness-
one shift to cause an avalanche, one drop
to cause a flood, and as if god was merely a
journey upwards, logic bends and cracks to point,
and science would not obey the
laws of empty chambers
and the angst of dying physics.

In a reality contained within infinite shells, hard,
baked solid by the desert sun,
we fall, slowly, to dust as these sawdust years
pass like mirage faded in perception.

I search for words to describe the
euphoria that moonlit evening when
I lifted-
but, I was scared. Something was
pulled like a handkerchief from my
inner, and I lay comatose while
visions harshly divided and I saw Him-
In some energy, red and billowing-
and I did not deserve to feast upon Him-

And forever parched and bleeding,
throats sore from endless screaming-
No hell, but those who never cease for seeking-
And for those who dream of dreamscapes, high and rising-
for those good men who fell from heights of lightening-
I despise those thoughts so frightening, but
who I am I to err for visions uninviting-
And several costs and bills paid later
I had a love but now I hate her-
For fear of loss, I’ll remain a savior
a synthetic instrument played much later-
And for those asleep, awake or dreaming
there's nothing more to feel-

must be more to feel