Dream Ourselves Awake

Just wonderful.

Objects, and the Distance Between Them

Am I alive and well?
Some days I cannot tell.
I walk, I talk, I breathe
But am I really me?
What does it mean to “be”?
Is it only what you see?
Or is there something missing
In these lines,
In shapes and shades and days,
Too long at times,
Too dense to be condensed
In pretty rhymes,
But meaning still too sparse to parse;
Eyes opened wide
But in a realm of endless dark
We perceive
What we choose to believe;
Dream ourselves awake
That we might create and receive
What we think we need,
Subsisting and existing,
But nonetheless empty,
Feeling endlessly
An ache that cannot be relieved,
A void as vast and deep
As all the lakes and streams and seas,
Searching skin and minds and hearts
For rhythm, for a beat,
For a sign of blood to bleed,
For proof, for a sign, for relief

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