Photo: Creative Commons

Photo: Creative Commons


escapism in a pickling jar

acquires its own flavor

but by a certain age ideals sour

it’s why the moment before waking is so attractive


to wander to a place not so far

just enough to fool reality

into tasting familiar

and youthful


distinct from memory

void of reminiscence

something beyond convention

full of effortless thought


tastes surrounding texture

sounds beyond range

spots of canvas untouched by pigment

moments in negative space


one is fleeting

but a collective contained in distilled borders

is a hopeful consolation

of an idea matured in waiting


I reach for it when waking

then with eyes open it ricochets off of walls

promising to return

obligating me to daydream


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Where one writer and observer of the human condition shares what she's reading, writing, and thinking...

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