nightly conversation, quiet contemplation
         if death indeed closes all
   what in the world will they recall?

I won't feel like this tomorrow
I'll be happier
I won't feel this empty sting when I wake up in the morning
I will just feel tired
But in another week or so
Maybe in just a few days
It will be back
And I will have to hide away
Like dreams you can't remember
There is no record of my pain
except in my journals
But they to will never be found

the matching orange firmament
matches the burning flames of hell

I stare into my acrylic breakfast bowl
to identify the distorted shapes
floating in white powdered milk
and spell out words never before spoken.

They are creatures
of the deep and dark
imagination
escaped from the dreams
of children;
we are all dreams
of children

who will one day
awake.

Time is running so quick
I wonder how did it look.
Like the sun at noon
or a veiled beauty
like the Moon?