Empty ****** of words.
My dreams are like a bad magician at
the margin of paragraph one.
For this reason it may be
prudent to bond with someone else.
I have no idea when I first started
living one mile outside my body.
I may resurrect as a fainting goat.
I may be a glitch, but I look at you
and my ailments take an Uber.
There is your show door inviting greatness,
and all I can do is offer a chalice
of understanding. Always.

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2017