Written freshman year amidst some contemplative stupor. I'm not sure what to make of it; it's pretentious, yes, but I think it has some sincerity within it that I may have lost between then and now. I'll keep it on here for the time being. Think of it as artistic masochism.
Dreamscapes.
For what do I and me pursue through countless days and rhythmic nights?
To embrace a hundred thousand lilted memories of skin dripping with melody and adolescent sincerity?
To stab out at shadows within shade and grasp at a wisp of light, hoping, praying, conceiving for an unanswerable answer?
To stand above the eyes, sweating blind and ignorant passion, reaching for what's been there over and over?
To hunt the mystic tremors of wonder beyond the glass rivers, preying upon the terror of aborted chance and desert-baked risk?
To awaken and unleash a dream into reality, bleeding new life-alters into crevices of humility and disregarded faults?
To dance through bald streets of suburbia, screaming to the mothers with their cookies and ornaments and fireplaces that a wolf prowls tonight?
To rebuild hopes of misbegotten romances, breathing warm-winded sighs across the heath of a throbbing neck?
To race the guttural pulse of the moon, seducing the stars to tempt the gypsies that claw the frozen ground?
To believe within a hopeless soul, transforming, transcending the angel that aches to shiver an infinitesimal barrage of notes towards the mattress of your front door?
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