actually I've run out of poems
and a pen is no longer my totem
as I wander my dreams

I'm trying to think less material
but I can't distinguish here from the ethereal
for reality's tearing at the seams

What about a dream itself
I know the weight of them so well
I guess, maybe, others will too, that means

I guess I'll stay here forever
whether I be real wherever and whenever
in the upside downs and in betweens