Last night I dreamt that I died without the grace of Love. Her rivers flowed of death, wailed of profound tragedy and humankind’s want. Rivers flowing of blood, rivers smothered in toxins, rivers of plastic, rivers of waste, rivers of death twisting their way back. That was not last night’s dream. That is now.
Last night’s dream snuggled her fangs into my spirit, sending me to me.
Last night I dreamt of death. It crawled inside my carcass like a worm, pulsating into my being. Who is the author of this grand production? Whose damaged mind came up with this little play, this unimportance in the larger scheme?
She is with me. I can’t verify her credentials, so it's better to be safe than to be sorry. Love.
Last night I ached for truth and woke to my spine tied up in knots.
Careful what you ask for, child. Better to be sorry than remain safe…
Last night I dreamt I died without the grace of Love.
© 2011 by mark prime