It was perfection
I might say proud.
Or…something of a rediscovered path,
Maybe a course to stay

It was a learning of
Luminous beings.
Or…the dousing
Of a waning flower.

It was inspired liftoff upward,
And singed membranes of my heart.
It was pebbles for children
On lucid dream shores.

It was “I understand.”
And genuinely, in return, “Take my hand.”
And the passing of the pebbles
Into the palms of poetic sands.

It was “I don’t know you.”
But I’ve cut myself open, don’t stitch me up;
Just teach me the proper way to bleed.

It is, I am still bleeding
But safely now, and I,
And my pebbles
Are ready to be cast into the pores of literature,
And washed up for some
Lucid dream traveler to examine and admire,
And toss back in.
Because the construction, destruction,
And proclamation of words will
Never be unwelcome or untrue,
And my friend, nor will you.