Dreams of imminent pasts,
Turn into receptacles;
Vehicles of discovery, roaming,
The safari of the soul.

The ever changing,
Presence of the seasons,
The reminders of man’s end,
And nature’s beginning.

An alabaster albatross, frozen,
On the mantelpiece of time.
Cries of seagulls, screaming,
On the shores of infinity.

The singing tree-frogs,
Foley, to the film of my dreams.
Reconnecting inner selves,
Suturing, disparate lives.

A surgeon stitching wounds,
To heal the mysteries,
Written on the skin of time,
Mauled by lions of existence.

The stranger glanced,
Across the river of time,
And smiled at the creature,
Of his present self.

Charred corpses of ancient trees,
Marking their presence,
On the foamy low tides.
Of my wild imagination.

Did you dream of me,
Or did I invent you, ranger,
In the sandy, rosy twilight,
Of my remaining waking hours?

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