it appears to be a sickness of the soul
in truth,
it is human to be a fool.
I hope to cultivate something that grows beyond me.
I hope to see something that towers me.
like an intensity enticed by agony but it's weight lifted of its immensity on the value of its words and the promise that continuously grows.

My dreams are enshrouded in a silk of death and destruction erupting into a curtain fire that blocks off a room of its single entry.
When awake I stand as sentry, bags on my eyes heavier than my body.

And those dreams that bare no nightmare.
All I can see is open skies and full seas.
untouched forests and no one else.
I just take in the moment and stare.
I brush my hands along the bark of every tree.
I take the time to reconcile with my self.