It isn’t all one single phosphorescence

clinging to our exhaled breath for dear life

or a candelabra in the hand of a veiled mystic

dripping wax on the tunnel floor

or even a spark of flame refracted by glass

into rainbow hieroglyphs where our shadows walk

It isn’t that

or I wouldn’t be here on my knees

digging my hands through the debris of us

trying to find that single page where the ink ran dry

and words formed of a story we thought had no end

until we came to the light at the mouth of the tunnel

and saw what was always there

waiting for us

Dreams have lessened in intensity for me over the years. They used to be vivid and strange. Now, they’re sort of muted.

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

7 responses to “Hieroglyphs”

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