Cold Air

I dream often the wispy, stretched and tasteless

My mouth is dry while my mind is high in a world of my creation

Colors dark not drab swirl in scenes aplenty

Deeper still roils me, devoid of any

Air

Without I gasp, then find no breath needed, not here

I empty and open, like a flower up unto the crown of this very skull

My works collapse, right into the firm grasp of sleep and its warm lull

The dark, not black, melts me in its great big pot

Forget I not, but I is nought to be found

Less you scooped all up, ladled it, me, back into my hollow crown

Author's Note

Please read aloud. Suggestions are appreciated

Reviews

[Pete]

sounds like a dream state. we can go anywhere our dreams take us and be anything they bestow - beyond the limits of our real, awake lives. well told.