There’s a deep dark hue
to the worst of dreams.
I’ve been hanging out with the dead.
Those old ghosts are controlling my head
My heart is an open wound
Sweet grapes stuck in old glue.
Close the door.
Baby, I’m crushed, battered and blue
from banging myself on these boarded-up walls
with the juice pouring out on your floor.
The water here is clear and bright.
It has a summer dazzle.
On this beautiful island
the water laps against the shore and I smell salt and shells.
A shore of bleached white sand running through my open hand.
It’s been a year without a poem.
The world became too real.
And where did I go in that dark space?
Too crystal clear
and full of stalking fears.
Trapped in fractured time
with dreams from fentanyl.
It haunts me still; ten weeks in hell, unconscious, surviving on my wits
The Dreaming Path 