My nostalgia is not obsessive
There is a tourniquet to stop the bleeding memory
It will survive, it has its own pitiless integrity
We will meet at last on the ridge of the jackals
A lonely place,
west sun setting space lamentation
From the deep aqua subconsciousness
I slowly wake, swimming to reality for air
My head breaks the surface and gasping
I am back in the here and now
Sunday afternoon distant traffic, slow bird calls.
But the dreams stay for a while in the skin of my forehead
Still sketched, beckoning revisiting
Before they fade too soon.
From the deep aqua subconsciousness
I slowly wake, swimming to reality for air
My head breaks the surface and gasping
I am back in the here and now
Sunday afternoon distant traffic, slow bird calls.
But the dreams stay for a while in the skin of my forehead
Still sketched, beckoning revisiting
Before they fade too soon.
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