It was a cloudy vision,

a river of hands flowing thick,

reaching franticly for treasures but

coming up empty as they tumbled like

stones, never resting, bumping into and

falling over as the force moves into

crowded silence past towns and under

weary bridges where a cloudburst of

muddied hands swim in an apocalypse of

power, traveling without hurrying, intent

with destination and wagging tongues

heading fast to the ocean, the resting place,

the caves of water, cleansing and washing

the openness without borders, deep

enough without crowding; a fresh breath

was well deserved.


It was a dream, but the cleansing felt

real, and still does.



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