agowilt
“Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, Chaos is being yourself.”
What is more real—the dream or
waking hours? I cannot understand
the difference in the discord, though
the self I perceive in dreams is softer,
brushed and shaved, prettily dressed.
I write to you in snarls and knots.
My dress is damp from the cold;
wind puffs the sails at my breasts.
Crushed silk and lace I keep for the
city, my dwelling is littered with ashes.
Fingerprints on white linen pronounce
my departure from the unconscious.
Sweet jasmine at the altar, hibiscus
rosa raps at the window— souvenirs
from poems of young lovers. I realize
substance through dissymmetry, the
chaos shapes my spirit. I open my
eyes to the scent of fresh camel scat.
What is more real—a cup of coffee,
or the waves blushing beneath a red moon?
Photo source.
