Writing from my dreams

It always starts out I am staring into an abyss of black, nothing in the distance or the foreground. I have this dream often, more often than I would like. I stare at nothingness for what seems like an eternity. I suddenly see colors all around me. There are blues, greens, blacks and reds, it feels like a color wheel all over the room. It is then I can feel the scene pulling back from itself, watching everything in the room I know that something is different. It feels odd this dream and yet I have it every day. I do not know what it means, not yet.

A new day is upon my skin the frozen ash of fallen lives and wasted times rests upon a child’s shoulders. I do not know who she is, only that I feel her in my heart and in my soul. I can feel a pull upon my mind each I am with her, every second a new phrase, every day a new paragraph. The weeks fly by like sentences in a Grisham novel. I burn through her, waiting for something else to happen, only nothing does, only the words come. It is a new day something rises upon the shore , I see it poking its head out, unsure of where it came from.


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