PATTERN OF DREAMS

Raise the volume and don't repeat. Secure that grip and let the anticipated energy flow. Colors are confused with words unwritten. Vague expectations surround this hollow structure of a lost home. Reaching for that enhanced meaning and ordering another round of fierce thoughts. Cracked ribs bring hostile movements to the interior of the body. Numbers play a powerful role in the crippling event of sleep. A strange authority has prevented these eyes from seeing beyond the dream of night. There is a territorial sound introducing a style of spiritual protection for the mind, as a trancelike state covers my vision.

The spine is numb and the heart beats recovering steps. Inspiration cradles itself within the womb of a stunned soul. The aftermath from touching that horizon, which is now in refuge, is a sunrise slowly maturing. Ripples along the water, that is without reflection, are moving at a serpents pace. There is a doomed wall facing my persistence rather than a collection of pure mountains. The demise of awareness may come sooner than one expected. Requiring that object of distorted vision to write cancels out a feeling of celebration and yet words of importance have been marked here to claim a symbol for the spirit.

Massive realizations have been thrown into that replaced construct of building a continuing conscience. Spoken minutes have somehow fallen along side silence and the result is traditional confusion. There are difficult conditions engulfed and entrenched within the mind, which has only recently accepted the occupation of Learning. The riddle of youth is a tale of exhausting and growing the senses so that they may adapt to this nomadic world. Rising from the east is the gray sea sky, ravaged from a winters wrath and once again those angelic voices have accepted a scattered applause from these native shadows.

Separating the limitation on gaining a depleted wealth of knowledge strains the mind. OH THE MIND. For it is there that these many words pay their respects under the pale light of the moon. Resistance to the divine Dawn is voiced and then seconds later blinded by those fleeing stars on the sky. Summer and Winter are names which occupy our lives and break that control we once had over our flesh. The seasons dictate that appropriate amount of time needed to really SEE LIFE! A mystic division in thinking will only stall the process of expanding thoughts and then finally concluding with an attached feeling of restlessness into that Pattern of Dreams.