It flows through greatness. Pages. Streams of it.
I keep a departed sage inside my mattress.
As her bones dream, so my mind becomes.
The wings of them. These dreams. Flows.
Pages. Streams of it. Departing as I fall.
Into certain peculiar transitions. You
could be nearby but even stars. You
could be the way it flows, the wings
of them. Inside. The way. These dreams.