January 8

comments 7
poetry

Frowned upon to write about dreams
but I want to say how

the wild things arrived,
hares, wildcats, hawks–

not dangerously– estatically.
The subconcious colors the world,

if neccessary, decadently–
It was a tapestry

how they came down
from the trees, in medias res,

the way dreams go,
my childhood home,

summertime with wolves,
no fear, just floating

from the same lack of gravity–
not obeying logic,

but following something,
some unnatural orders, and happily

7 Comments

  1. Pingback: everyone else’s dreams are boring (20180110) – Words and Feathers

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