what dreams may come.

Fingertips to petals,
feet dragging earth and dredging soil,
crumbling concrete,
from thick, thirsty roots.

Cerise, claret, carmine, merlot,
sisters of clusters,
delicate and fragile things,
born of growth.

Palms to rigid stems,
knees placating rocks of cleft and stone,
wearily hangs limbs,
wilted and unrepentant.

To meet once more,
either consciousness, plane, or province,
a million poppies,
could not lay me to rest.

You just get me there, I’ll decide what’s enough. – Chris Nielsen, What Dreams May Come

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2 thoughts on “what dreams may come.

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