The red bloom behind the lids,
not blood, not quite,
but a memory of sunset
pressed too hard.
Then the shapes begin,
amorphous wanderers,
sometimes sharp edges emerge,
a fleeting geometry
untethered from the world.
Faces flicker,
unbidden guests from yesterday,
a smile, a frown,
eyes that hold no judgment now.
Landscapes shift like dreams,
a forest of purple trees,
a river of liquid light,
places the waking mind
could never quite...
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