lie the soft memories we cannot change or alter,
but in the mountains surrounding those valleys
lie the cisterns of a dark imagination that winds
its way through reality like a snake circumnavigating
a rocky terrain hoping to find the albino scorpion;
it is not nature that creates this journey nor it is
the false interpretation of the day's events, but
the unforgiving desire to see what one cannot
in the hopes of remembering the almost seen;
and in so doing, die a thousand deaths as that
journey continues to meander each night,
leaving the days to sort out all the differences
that cannot be reconciled with the indifference
that logic requires in order to be effective;
we have no wills nor do we have will's power
in our pursuits of the albino scorpion that
evades and eludes us nightly in the REM sleep
that is needed for our tormented salvation
only to find it had been misplaced long before
all the sleeping pills consumed to forget;
in these cisterns we mentally bathe, letting
the magical waters mentally buoy us as we
float in and out of the dreams that have been
created for us like some erotic simulation that
has no end or beginning as it gently pushes
us into one dimension after another dimension
until entering the dimension of awakened reality.
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