Where we cascade across consonant piano notes drifting
sleepily towards some sense of center and mingled self
and nimbus puffs of soothing balm flow onto once tear-filled
eyes like norse lotion, and beds sprout wings to soar
across eagled-mountain tops that carry us to a distant
plain of drift-wood tumbleweed scholarship, and the perpetual
thumbing of the notes hints at a delicate secret being plodded
forth by crow-foot eyed elders chuckling with mirth above hallowed
grounds with our spirits clinging to their backs and ensconced
in their bushy beards, accordion breaths subtly kissing our brows
with wound-up tunes of zimmer bliss, falling into the arms
of our mother with miles of weaving hair that trickles into the
river of rebirth, splash above for wont of air with blinking eyes
new visions of a rejuvenated earth, and bison bellow
calls across the rosy horizon to the spirits embedded in the ground
by centurion worshippers, I saw those men and wept in joy
and my heart weeps now too in Sector Z, with an endless flow
of coffee bleeding into my brain and allowing me to expound
the theory of molding into a dream of the ocean of time following
a quick ego-death, and a conversation of particulars among two
that share certain passions, starting to shutter eyelids into
an endless sleep of life
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