Eternal Dreams

The last grip of the unsensed, yearning for unseen textures of the unreal. This is a hymn from the fingers that never played the night symphon. Do they know dreams were always rooted in the abrasions of reality?

Somewhere, a forgotten knee bore the cargo of enthusiasm without a vessel for tangible ambition. Reflection of reflection, again that shimmering illusion of feeling correct.

When the world was sketched invisibly by truncated thoughts, the phantom limb laughed at its own redundancy. Control sheets scattered wisdom, mosquitos of impotence buzzing disbelief.