I have been thinking about how fictional worlds thread with our realities,
how if you read a book,
watch a film,
see a play,
the subject matter and themes will unconsciously make their way into your daydreams,
I had been watching pride and prejudice,
thinking of Pemberley Estate,
the countryside,
how English hills can flood with hanging low mist,
overcast and soft,
mild, almost ethereal,
or how it may tear itself open,
on ripe summer days,
the ground verdant and full,
I see an image of us, by a lake,
perhaps an old-fashioned picnic basket,
cherries, peaches, strawberries, plums,
feeding each-other grapes,
we could dip our feet in the water,
laze and kiss and,
have all in the time in the world somehow.
I would have a book of poetry,
Sappho perhaps, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,
I could show you the ones I think you might like,
feed you a strawberry,
read you wild nights,
our hair and hands all tangled,
our words and thoughts entwined too,
and we forget all about the beautiful countryside, and the fruit, and the poetry,
for moments and moments.

The clouds outside and no floor,
Colors fade, they are no more,
The sky is lead it has just died,
The moon is dead, it's dark, it's night.

The smoke arises gray and dim,
It's arousal blue and slim,
The smoke arises ever higher,
The smell is there, there is no fire.

The stars shine bright we cannot see,
The dark is final, the dark is me,
the city tops sleep raven-black,
The beast asleep, no going back.

As the curtain slowly fades,
Revealing light through tiny frames
In the bleak sky color gray,
The moon shines red,shines bright as day.

I am a narrow stairwell
Waiting for the morning bells
To ring, for the early birds to sail
Watch all the cabs be hailed

Waiting for her to come
Will she come today?
Doubts, I have some
Should I kneel and pray?

But to whom?
Who would to listen to a narrow stairwell
Maybe God would
Will I look like a fool?

My claustrophobic natures will intervene
When was the last time I had a nice dream?
It's always the same, redundant scene
The scene is always the same and redundant one

I am a narrow stairwell
Waiting for the morning bells

Oh here we go again, another scene another act,
I’ll fit in just fine but I know I don’t belong.
I’m grabbing my passions by the neck, beating them into who they need to be.

Everyone’s the same, we’re all actors in this play.
I never thought I could get away,
But I’m not trapped cause everyone’s the same.

What is buried so deep inside
A memory so entwined
many lines and differing angles
The same frame can be seen
Differently with different lenses
Different outcome for every scene
Can alter all the things
And I would not remain
as the person I am

I am not only some peaceful stream of the forest,
Twinkling beneath songbirds,
Watering romancing deer.

I am also the river that cuts through the mountain,
That carves the earth to better fit my ease.

The one bears dare not cross.
The cascading ire,
Raptors are unfit to tame,
With any bellow.

Men will come to know the rocky bottom,
And winding parts,
Men will come to know their helmets and life preservers,
Won't be salvation,
When I say that they shall drown.

These nowhere towns,
Mountain tops snow-capped long through march,
All else,
Enshrouded in brown.

Though people live here,
And seems they aren't broken down.

The paint peels from the motel,
The mother tends to her daze,
The attendant ponders the insects of the sill,
Tumbleweed the only things, un-willing of being still.

Life is good here,
In these hazy,
Background,
Nowhere towns.