A Poem: Asleep And Dreaming Are Different Animals

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.