I’m a healer; not a feeler,
a traveler with loss of passion.
Pipe dreams are clear when day is gone,
then I spawn stories you can’t imagine.
I’m a wanderer; but I am not lost,
burn the human manufactures.
The sky is bleeding poor man’s gold,
drowning lunatic dream-catchers.
I’m a winter child; but my heart is fire,
it's a roaring black hole of ancient lullabies.
Follow the zebra through the midnight woods,
I saw glimpse of amnesia in its eyes.
through a window.
dance upon the stage,
a little honey bee.
Petals of paper
Like tiny footprints
to lead the way.
Lead a zebra,
lead a honey bee,
to a delicate daisy flower
where they might sit
how peculiar it is
that a honey bee
just might fall
in love with a zebra.
How am I aware?
When did I become aware?
What is aware?
Does a lion know they are a lion?
What do they call themselves?
Does the Zebra know it is only a Zebra?
Does it know it's cause of death is a Lion round the neck?
As it bleeds does it remember it's family?
Does the Lion remember its first kill?
Do the buzzards have an opinion on the situation?
As they argue over dinner do they also debate?
The birds squak " if humans are aware, why aren't they aware of us?"
The giraffes chime in " why do they pretend our home is a wasteland?"
The monkeys holler "humans build concrete caves to hide from awareness"
The hyenas laugh " what stupid animals!"
The leopard whispers "aren't we all?"