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Oct 2020
here, time is a truck
with waxed wheels. but it
keeps pacing, keeps paving the path
to destruction; in dreams, I pluck

myself from its sheath, let it sweep
over me like a tide; on the
ground, I gather my garments,
as stones and seashells, slip

into their ethers, where eternity
waits. here, pyramids donโ€™t converge
as they taper; they tunnel
like a lair that has lost its lucidity

& Iโ€™m wandering within their walls,
clueless, cloudedโ€”a captive child
eager to escape into enlightenment,
or another dream, where bliss befalls.

this is a paper-dream gobbling
realityโ€”down to its
bone, bruised bare & bleeding.
Written by
Paul Idiaghe  18/M/USA
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