There was an unwillingness
of movement.
A stretch like tree tops
in a tempest.
A few indistinguishable words
slipped clumsily into the air.
The visions were intangible;
the ones
you think you touch but
fail to feel.
It was a spirit dream, a
celebration of aesthetics.
A temporary creation of
interior thoughts like
running through water;
a beating of the heart in the
seconds between where one
survives.
Radiant neon heaven lights
strike a course across the eyes,
stirring them open
to a morning world.
Roger Singer 