Chasm: For Those Who Dreamt

We follow every rainbow nonsensically with alienated wonderment.  Our autistic faltering is mellifluously further then lovelorn murmurs radiant.  I am spellbound, by the somnolent twinkling of the last ersatz fairy, which sits beleaguered on the other side of the glass blinking, between my disfigured fingers.  My hand clutches the punctured, however nostalgic lid, as I turn the wheel of time forward, because only speculative abstracts learned to shadow me.  I never studied to care for the faux fairies, only cook vegetables, hug you back when you hug me, and seed the revolution.  I toe the edge of the

Chasm: For Those Who Dreamt,

a place where people reunite with bewildered obsessive compulsives severely deficient in lucid surreal. Everyone knows that one must forever fall to find a future that is not fickle.  Gravity reckons, that the only direction with loyalty is down.  My limbs are the tail, of the gigantic blue whale, hurtling into the vastness, diving too sincerely into the winking bluish chatoyant of denouement.  My erstwhile felicity buried deeply within the labyrinthine sun worn creases of vapid eyes.  The sweat surfeits slowly along frozen brows, deceiving our tongues, which licks at them as if they were tears.  My curious enchantment, which resembles travail, shimmers with trepidation, from brackish waters of diminutive mosquito infested swamps pooled in my palms.  The graft of solemn acrimony overwhelms my mouth; I beguile tepid retch into the void from my third mouth.  I smear away the vestiges of blood-flecked puke with a hand bearing self-made stigmata.