There are, endemic intricacies, in these, precinctive dreams, I weave, where perforated seas give way to ever changing islands, that if seen, cease to be, unique.
And there is, this feeling of sadness that gives to it, a meaning, a silence, so subtly fit in, a violence inside it that soothes in the end, as the islands, the islands, they sink, but rise again.
And if, I am to write it, I right it, to ride it, into dust, and these dreams, this sea, may only see it for thine ends, merely to feel it, is to say it, is to share it, beyond the fence.
But I keep what I ****, and silence, my defense, whispering of islands, then drowning in theirs depths, bringing the light unto darkness, and darkness unto the dust of my breaths.