cigarettes in spring time.

We prayed at the feet of magnolia trees, for their fleeting beauty was sacred unto the spring; and we listened long to the whispered stories of tulips, long silenced in the harsh of winter’s face. Those whispered ghosts of memories we swam through spoke in tones unheard to those of us who breathe in the mist of our unrepentant unseen world. We watched the slow dance of the trees, breathing glad awoke from their long sleep, and knew our secret names lived on, long-stilled from the tongues of men and beasts. We prayed for sun, and rejoiced in the wonder of her coming. We are the dreamers, and those who dare to live in this, the somnambulist’s waking world. Now is the summer of our immortal time, when pain sleeps, and days are seldom dimmed by clouds darker than the sky. We are free here, lighter in our souls than we have many times been, although they are yet enslaved. We dream days here, slow into the morningtime.  The cold of wintertime has stolen to our bones, where we tear those disparate selves of us from our collected sleeping mind. Here now we are awake, in truth, although we sleep and know not what we are. This is the space of dreams, and songs unpenned sing themselves through weary day-long souls.