The gravel jumps up off the road in my personal polar shift.
It hops and cavorts while springing higher and higher.
I can only watch from the audience, as I am not the writer.
The gravel leaps into the air, a chorus line of fine-ground stone;
the rhythm beats in crisp perfection, stretching to the sky.
I sit in the first row of my eyelids, focused and mesmerized.
Sleep deprived, I create the scenery for some late- night show,
that will play out in unconsciousness, when wondering why I dream.
I ponder who writes them after-all, to cause this endless stream.
Then like a vision in hallucination, the milled stones turn to pines.
Trees begin to morph from brown to green forming tall and rising,
higher than rocks could ever yearn, they stand materializing.
I hold my breath, sweet vision? or bad symptom of my health rundown;
I do not care. All is a gift as the trees cavort and jump to the gravel’s surge.
Standing majestic in throbbing color, they exist, while the gravel’s being purged.
Should I worry as this continues on with trees becoming soldiers?
Should I promise to sleep 8 hours nightly, in hopes I’ll never see another pine?
Perhaps the soldiers darting through the trees and all in flux, could be that sign.
Maybe I will find the time to write dream-plots for every shifting scrim.
Like a V.I.P in the balcony, I pull myself away, as sleep now comes a- crawling,
with visions speeding on and up, I start to slip into a deeper dream that’s calling.
October 4, 2014