As I sit listless,
Alongside the river supreme,
Silent stars gently rise above me,
Kissing the clouds with reckless abandon,
I watch the light bleed and create individual paintings,
As if the heavens were but one giant brush,
Though guided by luck and not creativity,
It seems it doesn't matter either way.

All things are connecting,
Dissected by interchanging strings and correcting,
Paths that most others would not take,
That wakes and creates an empty covered-grounding,
This is what we dream of and must make.

A selfish soliloquy that was written in haste,
Left a bitter taste from the poor and hollow remarks it made,
But it spilled out in every direction anyway,
Until the world left a cloak and dagger in it's wake.

The sunshine blasts my eyes and I am startled by reflections,
Memories of the dreams that we shared that night,
Our children are the thoughts that now follow us,
The remnants of a dignified trip into our own minds,
Alongside the river supreme,
In the shadow of our collected consciousnesses.