self portrait as a shadow on a prison parking lot
The paths down which we walk within our dreams
have led us to this place we dare not sleep:
this place where waking is not what it seems.
Our words have traveled down the narrow streams
of halting conversation from the deep
chasms carved by weeping in our dreams.
What scribes have caught our thoughts within the reams
of parchment buried deep beneath the keep
that slumbers here where waking shows no seams
against the teaming cauldron of our schemes,
across the patchworked calculus we heap
to bind the paths down which we walk our dreams
like dogs that bark at every light that gleams
within the shadows cast around the sheep
whose dim-eyed waking is not what it seems?
None but these, who prowl upon the lams
to gauge the ripeness of the time to sweep
along the paths down which we walk in dreams
towards a waking state not what it seems.
