I have glimpses that are novels
Maybe it's just me
The intervals between them
Help sharpen what I see
The shorter time becomes
The more the short times mean
The curtains part more easily
For each new lucid dream
The morphine drip looked for all the world like dilated marbles. Mary had been dying for what seemed like forever but was really only half of one year which was only two seasons out of over two and a half hundred. And, lucky her, they were the two seasons she disliked the most. Perhaps she would expire on her Aquarian birthday and learn to enjoy spring from the opposite side of the ground this time. "Pushing up daisies," as they say. Funny how an old saying like that can turn like a rabid pet and snarl viciously from what was just last year a lovely little snout.
I see shadows that are movies
When the day winds down
Ceiling tiles are screenplays
I read in my dressing gown
A light under the doorway
Sends shivers through my soul
As if the universe said "Here"
And God showed me His goal