(from "Song of Myself" poem)

dark coat, top hat

a shadow of purple

a cloud of strange proportions,

the carving of a raven,

It chilled me to the bone,

something that was familiar yet foreign,

burst into a thousand birds of ink

blow it all away,

memories, melting away,

slowly dissolving into nothing

wavering, shimmering

scars of crescent moons floating

dark navy currents,

tongues of saline blue:

seeds of misfortune,

your very own mind;

burning metal deeply imbedded in fragments;

dulling the scent of gunpowder,

a million needles,

ignoring bones;

My hands appeared again

white sand dunes, stars upon

the ceiling of the underworld

granules like serpents;

the waves reaching to wash it away,

out of the darkness,

towards the sands, the water, the depths dragging,

kidnapped by whiteness

nothing.

fighting back unseen forces,

I tried to breathe;

nothing

really happening.

behind my own back,

within in the realm of dreams.

Dreams create a reality

unto themselves,

a sliver of silver at my neck,

running myriads of thorns

blue, black, purple, shadows of

allegorical flames;

grasping my fingers in vice-like grips,

dog-earing, tearing, replacing,

the perfectly organized notebook in my head

I awakened my mind,

the images created in the depths of a well,

tenacious as ever.