Dreams of you start like this,
roaring lions from constellations
in the sky
come cascading down,
consciously congruent,
slopes of ethereal blue clouds;
And enter the wen
before slipping in me,
I am neither woken
nor jolted,
I sleep;
They brush their nocturnal
wailing wolves on a full
nails scratching the wood of trees,
abrading twilight;
And I am metamorphosised

a little each night,
cultivated feral;
Hunting, gathering parts of you
through dispersed scents,
returning to where I yielded
and you forfeited,
underneath ambushed skins,
and trampled leaves,
in the thick underbrush
of lost imagination.

© SoulReserve 2016

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