A Poem: Asleep And Dreaming Are Different Animals
- Brett Moore
- Sep 10, 2019
- 1 min read
I shape my world with pointed fingers.
These scarred hands open up like palettes
full of unimaginable possibility,
painting or grasping at silver linings
inside a whiskey built corridor
of blue, cloudless cognition.
Dreaming is the spark that sets the world on fire,
realigns the stars, a preamble to the destined leap
of the determined into wavering currents
that meander between fate and failure.
Take a chance on the wild unknown, it says.
Get to know the genius in the wall, it says.
Follow the perceived path towards the ambiguous
flickering light beyond the tree line.
Curiosity can take you where reservation never could.
Chase that rabbit down the hole, let it change you
into what you could be, if you let one foot lead the other
into oblivion, it says.
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