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.