pN2

A very much dead dream has got you tumbled in the corner of a room, covering your ears, mouth and eyes with the six hands you wish you had so you could shoo away the fly of faith in anything you cannot notice in spite of being before your eyes. Words hover in the air, awaiting sunk in awe since there is nothing that by far resembles what those who sit by you call hope. Tunes in the distance send emissaries to drive you away so you could perceive the grass by the sea, the sea by the stars, and the stars by your eyes. A thought on the wall that you have chosen to ignore sings in your sleep about the hundred comets which travel above. They might wish to stop to rest, crashing into the ground, dozing up what is around. Sunrises and sunsets could go a long way before a good one goes shine by your door. As grim as you may want to look out, as shimmering as you could dance on the shore, as abated as old smiles in an abattoir, there is a river of wind inside you which I could never deny.