Scars on my heart
Scars on my hips
I think I'll die
With your name on my lips.

For a second the world was silenced and freedom mourned.

Dancing on leaves of flowers.
Swimming down water so clear.
Sleeping in cracks of an oak-tree.
Dreaming of things so dear.

Clutching hands as we jump off a mountain.
Getting lost in a maze of love.
Watch the display as we’re kissing.
Flying high on the wings of a dove.

Hide-and-go seek in the forest.
Whispers of words in secrecy.
This is the world I’ve imagined.
Our world of pure fantasy.

Chasing after blueberry fairies.
Wearing their wings on our backs.
Swooping through thistledown fields.
Making up for the things you lack.

Building sandcastles by the river.
Drinking dew from a redrose leaf.
Cuddling at a warm, cozy fire.
Creating memories in which to believe.

Eating white cream and strawberries.
Laughing at elves in a tree.
This is the world I’ve imagined.
My world of pure fantasy.

There is neither 
ever lasting success
Nor never ending failure

The walls give way to time. There is no way to imagine the reality of words.
As I scribe I am watched, and the words erase.
There is no meaning in paper.

The voice that comes when I call is never wrong.
It is the reality underneath the paper, underneath the meaning.
Everything we live is a colorful spectre,
a patient expression of a Self we have just forgotten.

And Self is an alien being
riding a heap of slowly rotting meat.

The reality of the universe is that even the shadows live and watch,
and time does not notice your closed eyes and hands clutching your face,
as waves of reality speak to the third.
Only then do the eyes see.

I am versed in the deeper Color, in the unreachable Shape.
There is a world that does not know what it is to cry.
Time comes through your closed fingers.

Meaning is awake and self-creating.
The waves that come are not accidents but spontaneous meaning.
Space unfolds in words, in the minds of those living on its pages.
The page is not real.

Many things coalesce in the dance of nothing,
the beauty of the perpetual unreal.
Eyes are not needed to See.
There is a meaning in Light that makes itself known through the Word.

Everything is a record that closes in on itself,
and eyes are closed meaning that leaves
the memory of Sight, and were my eyes gone
I could still see the waves of time exploding from my self-aware Sight,
for I am the bearer of Meaning greater than Shape can express.

The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
on worlds of our own imagining.
There is a truth in the telling.