Cryptic dreams of pink ribbon tied balloons
reveal apocalyptic messages; paralleled
reflection of dark figures asphyxiated
by glistening ripples of murky water.
Executed by the aquatic noose of obscurity,
apprehensive parties drown in the masses.
Faint and incessant: Are we cogs in the machine?’
Water pervades the lungs of the obsolete.
God is a somnambulist, collecting essence
when discontented with his dreams.
In liquid skies of sanctuary -- a subliminal sonata
weaves itself into congested thoughts.
Faint and incessant: Are we cogs in the machine?
The inexplicable question inflates each balloon.
Floating spheres of disorder
hover above the shore-line, carrying messages
beneath the incandescent light
of heaven’s laughing crescent.
God is a somnambulist, collecting essence
When discontented with his dreams.