Tethered To a Dying Dream
How silent lies a lone ghost ship
that lists, tethered to its mooring
having run aground
inside a dying dream, now distant.
Unearthly selenium skies hang
mute, limp and discordant
absent of air, breathing death.
I drift alone in an ominous ocean
devoid of water
hovering in a vacuum of anonymity
absent of that ever essential
liquid of life.
I am inert, obscure and obtuse
languishing in a catatonic state.
A yawning expanse of emptiness
marks a melancholy existence
as if Mars happened
upon a forgotten corner
of the earth.
I feel lost, as I look up
into surreal clouds
congregating
in solemn penitence
watching as they move
upwards and downwards
at random intervals.
Morose are the disturbing dreams
that can send a vulnerable soul
into the abyss of madness.
How freeing it is to awaken
to the renewing gardens of sanity.
Written on 3/23/2018
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