Listening to jazz around 4 am and the otherwise silent room shudders.
The soft amber lamps dance and then mood shifts down a gear.
Somewhere between the faint smoke swirling in the brown glass and the
late arrival of perception crashing down.
"There are other worlds than these."
The dream was lost, there was some break in the links and time
has given us nothing but faint recollections.
Song remains the same,
men still war,
lies still breed,
serpents still wait in the garden.
So here I sit waiting to cross over,
to return to what I have left in that other place.
The record spins and this world fades away.
Melt away what I see everyday and replace it with
the parallel.