There is sand in my pockets

I am waiting on it to turn to gold

While the holes in my shoes

Refuse to tred carefully

On the contents of my unconsciousness

The constallated images of my mind

Giving them tangible form

Of opulent manifestation

Black rubies of forbidden thought

Who give birth to new emotions

Where galactic magicians sing

Incantatery truisms of other realities

Where banality is evaded with sharp realistic taste

That breeds on impulse of eternal heaviness

Of emotional anguish which seethe and bubble

Burst blisters of my charged inner self

My castle, my cell, my coffin, my grave

In ******* detonation of undiluted words

Concentrated, full, a blue fire of energized thrusts

Sustaining uninterrupted creation of imagery

There is sand in my pockets

I am waiting on it to turn to gold

I discard my shoes but retain their holes