What sort of dream continues
to weave its machinations throughout the day
and does not desist
though I have departed from sleep?
It is the residue of my tears left to coalesce.
I cannot distinguish myself
from the stars overheard
or from the streams
which are born each moment anew.
I am not like the others
and for this I am held distant.
I do not have the time or the gall
to care what other’s think.
I have but this life
and it is well and truly occupied
by the things that I love,
by the poetry that dwells deep within me.
been busy house painting