The map is never the territory.
Deep in simple baby dreams,
before pesky considerations of
language or doubt,
daringly hued winged creatures,
unnamed, sang wonder lands, beautiful vistas.
In a rush to grow up and claim
servant’s rightful duties,
I learned to hide from
the truth of beauty,
to believe pretty lies.
Then, slowly, in addictive trance,
ugly lies about my dreams.
Caught, tossed by primal waves,
twisted, head tangled to heels,
overwhelmed to reach these realms of
magic and mystery,
then spit out on the shore,
wishing for more awe,
to be towed under, over and over.
Breath transformed, restored with playful gills.
Sleight hands pull back society’s clock.
Future measures emanate from heaven.
Mock face silent clock on rented wall
tells me it is tomorrow.
I find my unique place between dimensions,
draw maps to follow in animations
human language cannot bind.

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