There comes a place we fall lost
with color ripening in the limbs
of a dangling vine in fair moss,
Who’s light only falters and dims-
When we have felt and seen it
inside ourselves-
Inside the fear of waking,
buried beneath our dreams,
alone and bare:
Bodies stripped of desire-
To fall into a balance;
a symmetrical beat,
aside from this path.
The hem of thought.
The birth of a dream.
We walk no further-
Afraid of the dark
around the color of night.
Afraid of the duality
that clefts our soul,
as we sleep-
We wander long down our thoughts,
That coalesce to dreams
we cannot wake from.
