Fall into whispered memory,
the best of scenes in dreams, in ether.
No time left for hope.
It’s do or die unsung.
One scene at a time.
Busy weaving
click, click, click, click
Moving, breathing, in the rhythm,
straight ahead.
Never glancing past the engine
that entrains, chugging
brain engaged by current of song,
encouraging movement
on cue, on time, in serial rhyme.
This surreal fantasy
weaving, weaving…
Always on the threshold.
Never really anywhere.
On the road from here to there.
Not accepting.
In motion, like a trance, without a goal.
Expecting what?  A fortune to be
told?  A jaunty rainbow?
The miracle of love?

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