by scott vee
trapped in a conscious place without escape, or is it just another way of saying hello?
Wet spirit of the night,
diving like despair,
grinning at the glass where I saw
dancing pieces of the picture of aging,
and fears behind every move we've made;
The spaces between people eat them alive,
they thrash and fly like shredded flags,
they gave up and escaped to this place,
their bodies fall, their minds are flying,
their wingbeats trash the room,
until the morning alley-grass makes them laugh;
And laughing, they are psychotopes,
different faces of all they've known,
now they know things cannot be
what they seem, what they feel,
things cannot feel at all;
So we toy with the question,
what if we sober up?
Will we awake, or dream more deeply?
We have come here night after night,
but we were never together
and we do not know why.
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