Silver gray threads weaving
The tender brush of the back of
your knuckles across my cheek.
n the rabbit hole
without a sound.
Extracting meters and meters of raven black string,
a chord from deep
within my flesh
All at once shredding and relieving
my nerves from within.
Frog amicable amphibian
Morphing into a hag cackling beside me
In the backseat of the '68 Oldsmobile.
Loosened and lost teeth
Walking among gram's prize roses
Her adept hands pruning, dusting, appearing and disappearing
A hint of her chartreuse sweater taunting me from behind the shrub only
To vanish when I rush round the roses
Foghorning into the cotton muffled corners of my mind
Rendering the delicate
silver gray threads asunder.
Unraveling my stories
Nuclear meltdown siren
Harshly ejecting me
Thrusting me from the once lulling tumultuous waves of sleep
"There is nothing more boring than other people's dreams." Quentin Jacobsen in John Green's Paper Towns
"The dream is the liberation of the spirit from the pressure of external nature, a detachment of the soul from the fetters of matter." Sigmund Freud