Thin bolts try to hit my shadow.
To keep myself from swallowing my mirror.
The strokes in my head melt into a glow.
Flashes cut through the light in which I walk.
Spiritual surroundings of my very existence.
White spots describe the varieties of fantasies.
Blind hands feel the spirit of indeterminacy.
Time is running without being aware of it.
My dreams disarm these times in which I dvelve.
Impulses full of intensity make me hold my breath.
Inscrutable is the mood for searching.
The struggles for mantaining and letting go lead to awkward fears.
Thin bolts have a go at my shadow.
To keep me from gobbing the looking glass.
Then melt to a glow in my head.
Their flashes yet slicing the light beams through which I walk.
Landscape of my soul.
White spots rune these myriad dreams.
As blind hands grope whelmed happenstance.
Time runs unknown, unseen -
my hopes disarm the times through which I wend.
Bold whims take my breath away.
I search, knowing it's unknowable and
yearning to keep going yet let go brings lame fears.