Fantasia

It will end. This current of exhale and inhale.

Married to our dreams, that’s all that it is.

A brain that has feathers.

Taking flight to nowhere, yet everywhere.

As the numbers on the clock move with every blink.

The chandelier lighting hugs my dining room table, like my yoga mat hugs my temporal thighs.

While minimal satisfaction slides down my chakras as I downward dog.

Consumption of my solitaire religiously invaded me.

Widowing my present,

ticktocking me to death which is only another entrance.

How do we know which dreams aren’t real?

Rock-a-bye baby my Mary Poppins.

We all have to sleep to survive.