There is nowhere to stow my mental
and emotional machinery during the long
punctuated silent separations we bear--
Bound by some far flung forgotten
fantasy made with enthusiastic promise
Our hope spanned across the telescopic horizon
transporting our propositions to dreamscape reality
It all crumbles when your intent becomes sterilized
with programming and artificial attachments that
hold your heart prayer wheel prisoner
You begin to lower your standard
You begin to entertain Dark Age emptiness inside
your seven day diary devising a way to escape
while wandering from room to room

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2015