Lucid dream
When I was young they had no faces
Eggs
Smooth as nog
Strain to convince
Me or you
To run from hurricane fire inside
The walls of that house
Carry on austere reflection
We are crystallic
All their irises
Black maelstroms
Keep face
Of course I have known what you are doing
Avoided that gaze
There are more vital veins I am satisfied
But must I wake you to shake you?
Or is it I who
Becomes the ascetic?