Not knowing how he feels,
I dream he feels the same.
Not knowing what he sees,
I dream he sees me.
Not knowing what he thinks, what he breathes, what he speaks,
I pray he speaks my name.
Chants it over and over
But.
Let's just say he doesn't--
If his prayer is of some other being. His soul calls to another's.
Well, then surely all dreams must be the realities of parallel universes. Somewhere in the chaos of time and space we must exist as a single entity--
Results of a massive collision of two dying stars.
We must be the sun in each others worlds somewhere.
Me and him.
We must,
Shine.
Drink of Coffee and dream of Ink, the worlds you will paint in blood. Thus a Writer is forever bound to these elixers. Or, dare I call them poisons.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Shine
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