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