I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.
The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.
new and rough poome