All images © Emily E. Johnson
I've come to take these days with a grain of salt,
the fault is my own and I wear it well,
baring its' burdens in my own sort of fashion
of self reflection
of deep conviction.
An imagination run too far beyond tangible truths.
Flickering scenes behind a glassy gaze
from too long staring out this windows' pains
at a world beyond reach,
bound by the roots that sleep beneath these ever pacing feet.
Fever dreams 'til the grey light of a new dawn,
greeting each in a cold sweat of uncertainty.
What it all means, I don't know.
A series of intricate webs trap these vaguely lingering scenes from above this mess of tangled sheets, and my mind reels with the realness of it all,
its' likeness to reality.
Silently, begging nine more minutes, please.
And the alarm sounds.
