Dreaming . . .

I am whole only in my dreams,
the missing limbs restored, the
faulty netting patched. I can see
down through my self, miles wide
and inches deep, and into the secret
abyss untouched by probing questions.
I can see the swollen, pulsing corals
in the darkness, the questions growing
larger every year, the lazing lyrics and
thin-fanged doubts in the darkness.
And there are things, there, that
even I do not know the names of.
Things that lurk in every shaded soul,
things that are monstrous and human.
And I look to them, and realize, I am
whole only in my dreams.

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