Are they the crash of lightening on a dry desert plain?
Are they the sound of thunder in the night rumbling for miles and miles and miles?
Or are they the soft center of a fresh apple pie on a fall day?
I tell you dreams are good
and they are bad
But dreams are the best and worst
of reality
which is why they take no shape nor form and lose all sense of normality
Dreams have no jurisdiction
and that's beauty in their existence

So what are dreams?
What are they you say?
I say the pink sky of dusk on a hot summer day after a wrath of cooling rain
and in purest form may they take photographs of the most intimate part of your brain
and as complicated as they may seem
they are nothing but a dream
Beyond what they become is entirely up to you..
for dreams don't appear from nothing and it is the responsibility of your own soul
to make them true

Aching with melancholic memories,
The sea stands, Freedom carving her wings, Beholden to nobody.
Each wave destroying the remaining morsels of empathy that she still harbours.
One cannot imprint themselves on water,
But footprints are etched onto the sand.
Here's a little secret though- the sand is but swallowed by the sea.
The colours contort from one gruesome grey to another.
The days she is blue, the beast lies dormant,
Waiting for the black to raise its ugly head.
So free I think,
Water turning to fire, defined only by her existence.
Everything pales in comparison, the sun, the sky, the clouds.
But then I realise- what is the sea? Where are her colours from?
She is nothing but a reflection of the sky.
Her moods influenced by the clouds.
Free? I laugh.
She is captured.

4am sunday morning they broke into song
unable to contain their smiles
they cast aside the spent wine
and took their ribald song to the streets
with a fanfare of sound and light
like jesters of old
they painted smiles on the frowning old men
and placed rainbows over the bridges between
the carpets of the mighty and the halls of fable

by 5am they had made it all
the way in to the center of town
where a roadblock of uniforms thought to make sense
out of tealeaves and mint cookies
as the jesters just dance around their confusions
between their orders and
what the truth of the heart tells em is the song
and then we see the ugly show a pretty eye to the cause
as it marches in through the double dawn
one dawn for the sun
the other for the hearts of the lonely
and a secret one for me and her
in our lounge chairs by the top of the spike hill
kissing our sweet hearts to eachother

by 10am all but the most die-hard had fallen to dreaming sweetly
neath the juniper trees
while thouse few who clung to awakened hearts
sang softly and sweetly
of summer nights and fresh loves
unearthed from the ashes of the desperate pasts
all things made anew from all the things made old

by sunday evening
we had all danced all the dances
and kissed all the kisses till even the heat of passion couldn't fade
held eachothers hands
and smiled sweetly like memory's saying fare thee well till morrow
i would be crazy if it weren't for your hand in mine
here in the tropical sundown

sunday night so deep
and the only one left dancing is old harold
he's doing the charleston with the moon's echo on the waves of the sea
don't think he's ever been so happy
and as i drift off to sleep
with her in my arms
i know that i don't need to explain to anyone
that we are all jesters looking for a
song to dance to at 4am in the tropics

Gad Zooks,
the zedonk,
was mostly,
a happy little fellow.

but,
there did happen,
to be days,
when his,
incomplete
stripes,
got him down...
he was not horse,
not full zebra,
only part donkey.....

and that made him feel, shonky, wonky,
weird n'strange...
like an equine oddity.
not at all likin his ***-dity

when he felt like this,
he would run afar
and pray for god
to take,
his markings,
away.....

Granmama Zooks,
a zebra matriach
and of magnificent stripage,
found him this day
mumbling and crying away...

she then said to him,
in her best zebra neigh....
you are sad little zedonk,
to act this way....
you should think of yourself,
in a different mindset....
you have,
the best bits,
of zebra and donkey.
you just don't see it yet...

i've learnt in my time
you just have to work,
what your born with...
some times,
what you see,
as bad,
actually is,
a god given gift.

you, should be always
be proud of who you are
and what you will become...

people will travel,
for miles and miles,
to see your bars...
and will still be,
talking of you little gad..
as they leave, all smiles.

in their cars,
calling you,
either zedonk...or zonkey,
or zedonkedey  too.
telling each other,
you are,
both cute and bizarre..

so my little,
hotchpotch friend,
be proud of you...
for in the end,
you will,
stand out from
the crowd
just chill, little zook
                      ...and be zen.

Claustrophobia sets in with the Sun in the West. Petrichor fills my lungs.
Not even the purifying winds of the Dawning Monsoon can erase the Blackness that has captured my thoughts.
The Sea so vast and blue, is nothing more than an Empty vessel of unending Misery. Grey. Grey everywhere.
The depth is Merciless, the Frothing waves; Crushing.
Swallowed. Eaten alive by my sorrow and that of the Worlds'.
The weight lies heavy on my Incapable shoulders.
I yearn to shed these Chains that bind me. But they bite too hard.
Pinching flesh. Drawing Blood.
I fall to my knees, Naked and Defenseless. Surrendering myself to their Mercy.
The cold wind encases me in its Shroud, leaving me Numb.
I can't breathe. Air. Air. So much of it, None for me.
Blood carpets the Cold marble floor.
Freckled with Red.
I can't scream. I am past fear.
Speed increases. Motions pass. The world dances.
Leaving me in its wake,
Drawing Blood.