Waking up in foreign lands,
sands of crime sifting downstream,
into my teeming, swimming mind.
Sepia color serpentined, swerved and swirled,
zooming in, momentarily,
on a swarthy toned figure from disciplined sun-touch and tell.
How to break loose from this frame of odd illusion?
How to find meaning in this situational protrusion?
It’s simply a dream that won’t last forever,
the roosters crow will eventually sever.
Ride out the odd aspects of it all,
and dream bend if you can’t stand it altogether.
Wrestling with spirits in a bed of sweat,
I’ve just got to wake up yet!
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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Comments (5)
This is deep and beautiful poem! and dream bend if you can’t stand it altogether" 😊 🔥
Well let's hope you wake up yet!!! , I feel like the sweat is a physical manifestation of a spiritual attack .
Trippy
This one’s got that deep, hazy, dreamlike pull! If dream-bending was an Olympic sport, I feel like you'd have at least a silver medal by now.
Very cool! I love your way with imagery and analogies. "Sands of crime" is especially sweet, IMO. And dreams allow for those kinds of unusual mixtures. Rock on, Rowan! ⚡💙⚡