what if dreams actually mean what i see and aren't just metaphors for other seas of life they invade they know how i long, just how to slip while i lay vulnerable and seemingly waiting for their spells or is it just yours? the way they linger far from the stings of bees more similar to that of mosquitoes, with the hope still in mind every time you ask how i am out here. knives turn without fault to her soul more to mine, i fail to acknowledge late summer and fall then simmer on thoughts of May wonderlands where acid raindrops fall. But with new found heart back in chest now train my heart for new accomplishments i just cant count the moments for a good soul and to hold her.