Phantom Fears, Fevered Dreams

Fools believe they can fly as the gangrenous wounds roll over in bed from a puss runs from wet dreams that keep flowing because can't go back. The river we tend runs along side our heart beats where the highways bring out the hopes and dreams of the midnight runners, and waking dead. Fleeting grey windows, and antiseptic conversations warm the bones beside the breeze beneath the breathe of winter's dull march.

Forfeiting our involvement in the here, and nows as well as the fleeting feelings of the times. Forging the never ending movements of maybes set in penciled heights against the doors that always open allowing the skeletons to roam the ward looking for a ghost of a good mood. Folding our invitations to afterlives that seem to unfold before us as we wander the hallways as lit sparks burning down everything but the memories, and the photographs. 

All the rage that churns in the streets want to be remedied by perfect love that often mimic the shapes of the best man's desires. The needles on record players skip up tempo to harmonize the joy we feel as the fever subsides into murmured hallelujahs like cold chattering teeth in clarity on the wave lengths of today's best impression of the future days as we are on our way. The flower petals that bloom from the wounds that surge forth from the bitter ends that calmed down during the night, as the nasalizing breaths unfold in time to soft angelic patters among the stars. 

Trust fills the lungs, and the clear horizons edge as we finally take off our masks.