What is a dream, if not the diversion’s lap you seek when eyes wide open could only close down your soul, if not the reverie’s syrup you so often wish was your medicine? What is escapism, if not the sleep beauty could only turn to when it is restless, if not the blanket as white as snow that you wish your bloodstream could be finally seeping into? What is a delusion, if not the castles you built without any bricks blown with lungfuls of air from the wolf who pilfered your red cloak, if not the wings you built within incarceration’s feathers and confinement’s bones? What are you, if not the voice resonating inside your own mind, if not the storyteller sinking in the tides of dreams, delusions and escapism?
Posted on Wednesday April 27th
