North of Normal Norman

Far beyond the realm of time, is a place neglected. West of what’s expected, south of what’s accepted. North of what’s normal, east of what’s formal. They say to paint my picture grey, but I decided floral. North of normal Norman was the light that guides the doorman. Help you see what is opaque, you have to kick the door in. North of Norman lives a race so jolly and so free. Breathing air, without a care, smelling roses by the sea. Saltlandia’s the name, but you can’t find it on the map. You can arrive within seconds, quick as a finger snap. It has no edges and no size, a boundless field to tap. North of normal Norman is a circus; vast, dizzying array. A kaleidoscope of colors; breathing energy displayed. An everlasting song that bellows out the notes of love. A place with trumpets at the gate, descending like a dove. You can do it without doing it, just being; that’s enough. You can see it without looking, check; a diamond in the ruff. Saltlandia, the palace of dreams, can’t stay and can’t depart. Doors are there to be opened up; each exit, another start.